


Family Man

by ARealPip



Series: Angel Baby [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are scary, Aziraphale is Out and Proud, Baby angel-demons suck the grace-life-energy from their parents, Birth, Body Dysphoria, Childbirth, Crowley has Trauma, Crowley presents as a trans male-- sometimes, Emotional Baggage, Family Dynamics, Family that doesn't fit into gender binary navigates a predjudiced world, Happy Family, Kidfic, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Mpreg, No beta we fall like Crowley, Other, POV Outsider, Pregnant Crowley (Good Omens), Realistic Birth, Sexual Dysfunction, homebirth, intersex child, occult pregnancy, parenting is difficult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARealPip/pseuds/ARealPip
Summary: Crowley wants to give his child a sibling.  His first pregnancy ended in a traumatic birth because his hips were too narrow and cismale-typical.  But this time he has a good midwife and he knows what he is doing.  So it all should be completely smooth.  As all second pregnancies are.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Angel Baby [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594474
Comments: 548
Kudos: 708





	1. Paranormal Parenting at the Playground

**Author's Note:**

> So this is about male-pregnancy, which is a fanfic trope, but is also a real thing that some very brave transgender men choose to do when they want to have a family. I'm going to do my best to make this story emotionally realistic, sensitive, and respectful. I do not have firsthand experience of every topic I am going to cover. So, dear readers, if I miss on something significant that you have personal knowledge of, please send an email.
> 
> There will be some events where our heroes encounter bigotry. The bigots aren't shown directly-- I just show the ineffable husbands' reactions and private conversations about it.
> 
> With one exception-- last chapter. Someone asks one of heros an invasive personal question and our hero deflects it, but is not in a position to educate the questioner.

Crowley agreed to meet Natalie at the playground at nine thirty. She arrived ten minutes early and sat on a bench, and he trundled up a few minutes later with a pushchair with a huge bag stuffed under it. Miran was leaning forward in the pushchair and kicking their legs and wriggling their wings, and as soon as they reached the entrance, Crowley released the tray and the lap belt of the enormous pushchair and lifted Miran out. Miran immediately scooted into the fenced playground. Crowley left the pushchair outside the fence and locked the gate behind him as he entered.

Miran was dressed in denim jeans and a long sleeved grey hoodie shirt with a hood that went half way down their back. They had a pair of little grey elasticized ribbons encircling their shoulders. They had a typical toddler's round little bottom; The top of a bulky red cloth nappy cover stuck out of the waistband of their jeans. They had bright hazel eyes and a mop of curly auburn hair. And they had enormous wings that went from above their shoulders to their bottom. Their wings were grey and downy. Miran toddled up to something that looked like a round trampoline suspended from a swingset frame and they grabbed onto the edge of the big disk and bounced up and down in excitement. 

Crowley headed toward the bench where Natalie was, and she stood up and walked over to meet him half way. Even though he was some sort of an angel-dragon, Crowley looked perfectly human. He was wearing stretchy black jeans and a tight fitting black T-shirt. He had a long loose fitting plaid shirt that was untucked and unbuttoned and covered his rear and fluttered around his waist. He wore dark grey knitted gloves and wrap around sun glasses and he was wearing his red hair in a bold spiky style that looked like it required a lot of hair product. Crowley walked up to Natalie and the air around him smelled of cedar and bermagot. He greeted her and took her hand with both of his gloved hands. The gloves were probably cashmere. They were amazingly soft, and they had funny little pads on the index fingers and thumbs. 

"If I put him on the swing, that should buy us ten minutes of talking time," said Crowley. Then, with no transition other than a change in tone, he said: "Daddy's coming. Daddy just wanted to talk to his friend for a minute. Yes. Nest swing. Yes we are doing nest swing."

Crowley lifted the toddler up onto the large circle shaped swing thing, and Miran crawled on hands and knees and sat in the center. Miran cast a suspicious look at Natalie and then looked at Crowley and said "Nesswing." 

"Is this your favorite swing, Miran?", said Natalie. 

The child's eyes widened, and they did not answer her. They just looked at their dad and said "Nesswing".

"It's sitting time," said Crowley. "Here we go. Wheeeee!" He pushed the enormous circular platform very slowly, and the toddler cackled. Miran looked a bit like a baby bird sitting in the middle of a great black nest with their wings folded against their back. The wings only wriggled a little when Miran moved around. The hood of the hoodie hid the place where the wings joined to their body. 

Natalie stood next to Crowley and watched him push. 

"So," said Natalie, "Him."

"Only so many fronts we can fight on," replied the father. "You have no idea." 

"Fair enough," said Natalie. "I assume the wings are hard enough?"

"The wings," said Crowley, "The nursing in public, the being a stay-at-home dad when all the other parents are mums, the everything."

"Well the loops of elastic on the shoulders are really clever."

"Yeah," said Crowley, "Every photo I have of my kid has those stupid things in it."

"Oh," said Natalie.

"I'm not complaining. I mean, I am. Obviously some of the other parents have it much worse. I mean, my kid is normal, better than normal. He's healthy, he's going to learn how to hide them, and then he'll just blend in. It's just hard, you know. He can't really have friends, and he craves them. Yes, Miran, that is a doggie over there. Yellow doggie. That's right. Doggie says woof."

"So is that why you want Miran to have a sibling?"

"Woof," said Crowley. "That's right. The special string is called a leash. Yeah. Everyone says 30 months is the perfect age spread, so we want to go for that. The leash is red. The doggie is yellow and the doggie's leash is red."

It was a little hard to understand the dragon-angel, because he continuously switched back and forth between talking to Natalie and talking to his child. 

"And Miran is 20 months?", said Natalie.

"Twenty months next week," said Crowley, "So we have to hop to it." He changed his tone and kept talking. "Daddy can push a little harder, but you have to stay sitting. Can you sit on your bottom, Miran? Okay, here we go. Wheeeee! Super high! Miran is going so high." And then, turning back to Natalie. "I want you to make sure that things are going to work this time for the birth. I can't risk it happening again like last time. Miran needs me, and if anything happened to me . . ." He gave the swing another great push. "It's different this time, is all. The stakes are higher. I just want to be absolutely sure before-- NO! No Miran. I am stopping the swing. That's the rule. You know the rule. You have to sit in the middle. All done nest swing. No. We are done. We can try again next time."

Crowley picked up his screaming toddler and wrestled him away from the giant round swing. While he avoided the blows of tiny fists, Crowley spoke to his child with the peculiar grammatical constructs used by parents of toddlers. "If Miran climbs out, then bye-bye nest swing. Miran knows the rule. Let's go do the slide. Miran likes the slide. All done nest swing. Time for slide." 

The sobbing ceased and Crowley set his child down on the ground. The little one pulled his father's sleeve and pointed across the playground and made some babbling sounds which Crowley seemed to understand. "You want to put sticks down the slide?", said Crowley. "Yes. Let's find some sticks. This looks like a good one. Here's a nice stick. Yes."

Miran poked around on the floor and picked up sticks while Crowley talked to Natalie. The angel-dragon picked up the loose ends of his open plaid shirt and pulled them up to show off his waist and backside.

"Can you see what I've done with my bones?", he said. "I think it's right. I studied the pictures you gave me. It's wider, lower, all that like you said. Anyway. I need you to tell me if its enough. I don't want to get stuck again, and once I'm pregnant I won't be able to change it. So it has to be right."

"Okay, that will be one of the things we look into today," said Natalie. "Can I ask how you feel about the changes?"

"What?", said Crowley, "Okay that's five sticks. One, two, three, four, five. Miran has given Daddy five sticks. Is it time to go put them down the slide?"

They walked over to the slide. Crowley stood behind Miran, his hand hovering two inches behind the toddler's back, as Miran climbed up the three steps of the slide. When the winged toddler reached the top, he held onto a railing with one pudgy hand and stuck out the other hand towards his dad. Crowley handed him a stick, which he tossed down the slide. Then Crowley handed him the next stick and the next and the next. 

"How do you feel?", said Natalie. 

"It's not a big deal," said Crowley. "Last stick, Miran. It changes the way I walk. Yeah. But that's just normal. I don't think anyone has noticed really. Humans don't notice anything. I mean Aziraphale notices. But he can live with it for nine or ten months. It's worth it. It's not like we're really doing a lot of-- I mean Miran still sleeps in our bed half the time. Okay sweetie, do you want to go down the slide or down the ladder? The ladder. Okay. Daddy will help you. You put your foot down. Almost there. I got you. Good. Next foot."

Crowley helped Miran down the ladder and then he and the toddler walked to the bottom of the little slide and found the five sticks. Then Crowley helped Miran climb back up the ladder and he handed him the first stick.

"Sometimes the body changes that happen with a pregnancy can be really hard," said Natalie, "Especially for men." 

"Well, I'm not a man," said Crowley. "And I've done this before. I really only need help with making sure that my body is a good shape for giving birth. Okay Miran, you have to hold on with at least one hand."

"Sorry," said Crowley, as he handed his child yet another stick. "I'm sure following me around a playground is a bit below your pay grade these days. We can talk more when he takes his nap."

Natalie was about to point out that Crowley and his family were the very reason that her "pay grade", as it were, was so much higher than it used to be, and that, furthermore, there was no one else she could trust with a family situation as complicated and delicate as his. She now had five midwives working for her, and she had trained all of them in how to work with transgender and non-binary patients, but none of them were ready for shapeshifters with winged children that survived by directly sucking the magical life-force out of their parents. However, she didn't get a chance to tell Crowley any of this because an aggressively friendly woman was crossing the playground and waving at Crowley, and her two kids were running up to say hello. 

Miran made an excited noise and stamped his feet and started trying to climb down the ladder of the slide. 

"Hello Wing Boy!", said the younger child, a little boy about four or five years old. 

"Hi Miran! Want to play the stick game?", said the older child, a girl around eight or nine years old. 

Crowley swept Miran off of the steps of the slide and set him down on the mulch, and the winged toddler reached up and grabbed the girl's hand. "Tickame," Miran said. And the three children walked off towards a tree. 

Their mother approached, and she gave Natalie a warm smile and extended a hand.

"Hello," she said, "I'm Claire. My two are Maisie and Liam. We come here all the time."

"Claire, this is Natalie," said Crowley, "She's a friend of the family."

"Lovely to meet you," said Claire. "We're actually heading to a nature walk. We're supposed to meet up at the Peter Pan statue at half-ten, but the kids wanted to stop by and see if 'Wing Boy' was here at the playground. They adore Miran."

Natalie made small talk with Claire and Crowley for a few minutes. They mostly talked about how cute Miran was, which was an easy enough topic, until Claire mentioned the wings. 

"It's completely mad how they get obsessed with something like that, isn't it?", said Claire. "Anthony says he even sleeps in them. It's a wonder they haven't been destroyed. But Miran is so careful of them. Never lets the other children borrow them. And he's so conscientious. He never bashes them on anything. Miran is such a gentle boy. My Liam just destroys all his costumes." 

Natalie nodded. "Kids are strange," she said.

"Do you have any children of your own?", asked Claire.

"None of my own," Natalie replied. "But I'm a midwife. I've delivered about 1300 babies. I like cuddling the little ones, but I don't have the energy to chase toddlers around."

At this point, the children came back, their arms loaded with sticks, and they made a pile of them at the base of the stairs of the slide. The girl, Maisie, helped Miran up to the top of the stairs, and she stood on the step just underneath him, with her arms on either side to keep him from falling. The little brother, Liam, handed the sticks up to Miran one by one, and Miran threw them down the slide while Maisie praised him. 

Natalie looked at Miran's wings carefully, and she saw that they looked different from how they had ten minutes earlier. Now they looked a bit artificial. The down, instead of looking like the down of a baby goose, now had a distinct multi-color sheen like polyester. The wings now seemed to move in a floppy, disjointed way, and seemed more loosely attached to Miran, as if they were a garment and not a body part. Natalie looked up at Crowley, who seemed slightly distracted, as if he were concentrating on something. When she caught his eye, his mouth twitched and he gave her a slight nod.

When Miran was finished throwing all the sticks down the slide, Maisie helped Miran to sit on the top of the slide and slide down. Liam sort of caught Miran at the bottom, though the slide was so slow that his help was hardly needed. Liam pulled Miran up to standing by grabbing his hands. Then the three children gathered up all the sticks to make the pile again. 

"Remember that day when Liam tried to pick Miran up?", said Claire. "He crushed his wings. Miran was so upset. I felt so awful."

"Eh," said Crowley, "They worked it out. Kids always do." 

"I know better than to ask Mr. Taciturn here," said Claire to Natalie, "So I'll just ask you. How did you come to know Anthony and Miran?"

The real answer, of course, was that Crowley's partner Aziraphale had kidnapped Natalie by using mental magics to convince her that she was already on her way to an appointment at his house, and then, with barely any warning, he had introduced her to Crowley. At the time, Crowley was over two days into a dangerously obstructed labor and, moreover, he was sporting wings and scales, as he apparently tended to do in times of extreme stress. Within an hour of meeting Crowley, Natalie had performed an emergency surgery and delivered his baby. This was clearly not the thing to say to a casual playground acquaintance. Fortunately, Natalie was very practiced at handling awkward interpersonal dynamics and family secrets. After all, she specialized in handling medically and emotionally complex births. 

"We met at a family get together," Natalie said, "And we happened to get on well. I've got a soft spot for devoted parents. And Anthony is one of the best." 

"Well," said Claire, "Of course he's devoted. Gay men don't have a child by accident, do they?"

Natalie said nothing. She smiled. Even though she had a very strong idea that Miran's origin had been a happy accident, she would never say a thing about it. No good could ever come of saying that any child hadn't been wanted from the very beginning. And, however much of a surprise Miran may have been, by the time Natalie came into the picture, both Aziraphale and Crowley very much wanted them. Him. 

Miran was 'him' now. Crowley was using male pronouns for the child. Natalie knew that Miran was intersex, and that his parents had insisted on gender neutral pronouns and gender neutral clothing for the entire first year of his life. But something had changed in the last eight months. Natalie could tell that it was an effort for Crowley to do whatever it was he was doing to make Miran's wings look so artificial. Doing that magic, and chasing a toddler, and protecting the precious wings from damage and enforcing gender neutral pronouns all at the same time was probably just too much to do all at once. 

She wanted to ask Crowley whether he expected to keep using the male pronouns in the future, but in her experience of dealing with people with complicated lives, the more invasive questions you asked, the less information you got in the end. The best thing to do was to just be silent and accepting. Eventually, if he wanted to, and he felt safe doing it, Crowley would explain. 

Natalie carefully threaded her way through fifteen more minutes of small-talk with Claire and managed to be fairly personable and not violate any of her client's privacy. The way she accomplished this was by asking lots of questions about Claire's family. Claire home schooled her two children, and she was happy to talk about all of the classes and programs that she did with her children in London. "And the best part is that we are outside for four hours a day," she said. "Liam can walk three kilometers in a day, as long as we stop to play on the way. But, speaking of walking, we'd better get on our way. We don't want the rest of the group to leave without us. It was so nice to meet you, Natalie. Nice to see you Anthony. Bye bye Miran. See you next time."

"Bye Wing Boy!", said Liam. 

"Bye Miran," said Maisie.

And Claire and her kids left. As soon as they left the playground, Miran's wings looked downy and beautiful again, like those of a baby goose. Crowley's face relaxed a little.

"Na!", said Miran. He leaned against his father's leg and worked his fingers under the wrist of his father's glove. 

"We're not doing that here," said Crowley. "You can have na with Papa when we get home."

"Na!" said Miran, and a second later he had pulled the glove off of his father's hand and sucked Crowley's fingers deep into his mouth. 

Crowley caught his expensive glove before it could hit the mulch. He sighed. "Okay," he said, "Na for five minutes and then we'll have that nice biscuit that Papa packed for you." He stood there and looked off in the distance and cuddled his son against his leg as the child sucked on his fingers. Then he shook his head and pressed his lips into a flat line. He met Natalie's eyes. "I don't know how I can be pregnant and do this. So that's a thing. But he does eat solid food sometimes, and Aziraphale is taking over with the nursing as much as he can."

"Okay," said Natalie. "Then that's something we're going to need to talk about. Now, if pregnancy were not a concern, how would you say this is working for you right now?"

"I have to keep my left hand scrupulously clean at all times," replied Crowley. "You do that while chasing a toddler in a park. And at his age people think its weird that he still sucks on my fingers. They want to know why he doesn't just use a dummy. But he's gaining weight. He's huge. And eventually he's going to be able to live like me and Aziraphale do. It's just hard to tell when that will be." He pulled his fingers from his son's mouth and put his glove back on. "Right. All done na. Biscuit time! Miran loves his biscuit. The biscuit is in the pushchair. Let's go get Miran's biscuit."

It was a long walk back to the book shop, but, as Crowley pointed out, car seats were a nightmare for Miran. "There is no car seat that's been invented that will fit his wings. Just look at the size of this ridiculous pushchair, and he barely tolerates it. And then there's the rest of it. A big bag full of nappies, even though we don't need nappies, and snacks he won't eat and a change of clothes-- actually he does need the change of clothes. But most of it is a disguise. Like this plaid shirt."

Natalie remembered the two times that she had seen Crowley dressed in his own clothes, and his style had been distinctly more dark and edgy. He had also seemed to favor a more ambiguously gendered look. 

"Plaid is the uniform of the nice dad," said Crowley. "Otherwise when Miran has a public melt-down people think I'm a creepy child-snatcher. When he was twelve weeks old, I had a police officer actually ask me 'Where did you get the baby?'. That's what I got for daring to walk around with my baby while wearing clothes that made me feel sexy. So now I have this plaid shirt. If you have a plaid shirt plus an over-sized changing bag, it says responsible boring dad who is definitely not kidnapping a baby." 

As they walked back to the shop, Crowley talked to Miran and Natalie by turns. He asked after her work, and he seemed pleased that she was running training programs twice a week. While they walked, Miran broke his biscuit into pieces, some of which he mouthed and spat out. He had a sippy cup. He didn't seem to drink from it, but he occasionally banged it on his tray. Crowley paused to park the pushchair in front of a construction site, and he crouched next to his child and pointed to the bulldozers and cranes and all the lorries. After he stood up and started pushing the pushchair home, he started talking about gender.

"Miran's public behaviors seem to fit in the male pattern well enough. He likes lorries and he collects sticks and rocks everywhere he goes. So people are happy to see him as male. And he gets little enough socialization as it is because of how hard it is to manage his wings. We just couldn't have another barrier. And, anyway, limited energy. Miran really saps our energy in so many ways. So it's easier to just go along with the male pronouns. And those are the pronouns his papa and I usually use for ourselves and we are fairly complicated in terms of gender. So its fine. Not ideal, but fine."

It didn't sound fine at all, but Natalie nodded. "Okay, I'll follow your lead with Miran's pronouns."

"Right," said Crowley. "We're almost home. I'll give Miran to his papa and you can check out what I've done with my body and tell me if I pass muster." Then, as they rounded the corner and the book shop came into view, Crowley changed his tone and said "Home. Yes. Papa na time. Yes. Time for na and a nap. Yes. That's our home. Our bookshop. Miran is home."

Crowley opened the door and braced it with his hip and then turned the pushchair backwards and pulled it up the step and into the shop. "We're back!", he shouted. "All three of us." Then he parked the pushchair next to the coat rack, and released Miran from it. 

"There's Papa's little one!", cried Aziraphale. He swept the child into his arms and covered him with kisses. 

"Papa!", cried Miran. "Na!" 

"Nice to see you again, Natalie," said Aziraphale. He shifted Miran to his side and extended a hand. "It has been too long. We must catch up on your news. In a minute Merry. Papa has to close up the shop and then we'll go upstairs for na. Do you want to help close up? Miran can flip the sign. Yes? Let's go flip the sign."

While Miran and Azirphale flipped the sign to "closed" and threw the bolt, Crowley took off his cashmere gloves and hung his plaid shirt on the coat rack and pulled a silver necklace out from under his t-shirt. Then he used his finger tips to fish the largest pieces of damp and broken biscuit out of the tray of the pushchair. 

"See?", Crowley said to his mate, as he held up the mess. "He just mouths on these expensive biscuits that you buy, and then he makes a mess, but he doesn't actually consume any part of them." 

"The point," Aziraphale said, as he carried the toddler towards the stairs, "Is that he is developing his palate. It doesn't matter how much he actually swallows at this stage. It took me a very long time to learn how to eat properly." 

"Fine," said Crowley. With the hand that wasn't full of crumbs, he detached the tray from the pushchair. Then, holding the tray flat so it wouldn't spill, he followed Natalie and Aziraphale up the stairs of the book shop and through the maze of book shelves to the hidden door that led to the family's tiny flat. They all crowded into the flat's cramped hallway. 

"You two head into the parlor and get started," said Aziraphale. "I'll feed Miran and get him off to sleep, and then I'll bring the tea." 

"I'll be right there," said Crowley, looking down ruefully at the damp bits of biscuit that he was holding. He jerked his chin towards the doorway to indicate that Natalie should enter the parlor while he went to the kitchen to wash his hand and the tray. 

Natalie went into the parlor and sat down on the only seating surface, a sofa. The tiny parlor also contained a large pink floor pillow that looked like a pig, a wooden rocking horse, a set of wooden ramps for toy cars and two sets of tall shelves, which, from about one meter up, were filled with vinyl albums and DVDs and from one meter down, were filled with cloth bins, soft dolls, wooden toys, and board books. The massive statues that had once been in this room were gone, as was the stylish glass table, but the flat screen television was still there. 

A few minutes later, Crowley entered the room and sat down on the sofa next to Natalie. He pulled a stuffed toy out from under the cushions and tossed it in the general direction of the shelves. "Yeah," he said, "So other than the bone shape thing, there's not too much for us to talk about."

"Really?", said Natalie. "I disagree."


	2. The Problem Crowley Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pre-natal consultation goes sideways as Natalie learns a lot more about Crowley and Aziraphale's sex life than she bargained for. Crowley has a lot of unacknowledged birth trauma. Miran enjoys a tea party on the parlor floor.

Natalie was sitting on a sofa with a man-shaped angel-dragon who had been inside his own home for ten minutes but still hadn't taken off his sunglasses. She didn't need to see his eyes to know that something wasn't quite right. 

"It seems like there's a lot going on for you, Crowley," said Natalie. 

Crowley shrugged. Natalie saw the tension in the lines around his mouth. "There's always a lot going on," he said. "We have a kid. Life is busy. Can we just get to the part where you do whatever you need to do to look me over?"

"Before we get to that I do want to talk with both you and your partner," said Natalie. This was only the fourth time she had ever been in the angels' flat. Being able to actually talk with them was a rare opportunity, and she wasn't going to cut it short. 

" 'Bout what?"

"Well, you seem a bit stressed and isolated," said Natalie. 

"So?", he replied.

"When we have the opportunity to plan for a pregnancy," said Natalie, "We want to make sure that the pregnant parent is really well supported in every way. Get off to the best possible start."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Nice of you. But, really, I only need the confirmation that I am all set with the bone thing. It'll set my mind at ease. That's what I need right now."

"Well, I've noticed that caring for Miran is still really draining your batteries and I thought we could talk about that and maybe find some coping strategies."

"We got that covered," said Crowley, "Aziraphale's going to take over more of the feedings."

"And is there anyone else that you can count on for support?", said Natalie

The dragon-angel snorted. 

It was a dumb question. Of course there was no one else of his species. He and his mate were stranded on Earth, banished here by their people for some strange thought-crime that didn't make a lot of sense to Natalie. And, based on the fact that Natalie had been the only guest at Miran's first birthday party, these stranded angels didn't really open themselves up to contact with humans. 

"How are you doing yourself? What do you do for enjoyment these days?"

"I'm with my kid all the time," said Crowley. "He's my life. We walk around the city. We go to the park. We feed the ducks. I enjoy it. Why become a parent if you don't like being with your kid? Spending time is the whole point. What does this have to do pregnancy?"

"Well," said Natalie, "I want to see if there's any space to make things a little less stressful for you." 

"The thing that will make me less stressed is knowing that I can safely give birth to the sibling my child desperately needs," said Crowley. "Really. That is actually what I need. I will be a lot less stressed when I can cross this worry off my list."

"But what about the day to day stress of caring for Miran," said Natalie, "Isn't there a way we can make that a little easier on you?"

Crowley shook his head ruefully. "No," he said, "There isn't."

"Maybe we can think creatively," said Natalie. 

"Ask me how many times my kid has had a broken wing bone," he said.

"How many times?"

"Three times. My child is 19 months old, and I've had to heal his fractures three times."

"My goodness."

"Human kids are fucking animals," said Crowley. "If they want a turn on the playground equipment, they'll grab him by the wings to pull him out of line. And the parents don't always stop them. I once had to pry him out from between two kids who each had one of his wings, and the mother was two steps away staring at her mobile."

"That's awful," said Natalie.

"I have a very short list of children who I will let play with Miran without me standing directly over them. Those two you saw today are on that short list. And even then, Miran is never out of my sight for a second. So yes, I am a little stressed. I'm the only one who can take care of him in public. Aziraphale doesn't have the stomach for it. He'll only take Miran out at the quiet times. He won't let him near other children, and socializing is half of the point of going out."

That was sad. Natalie hadn't realized how fragile Miran was, and Crowley responded to her sympathetic face by making expansive angry gestures and ranting. 

"Yeah," said Crowley, "It's always a memorable scene: my child screaming in agony because he has a broken bone, and the other parents crowding around us trying to tell me that I'm spoiling him by not making him 'share' his wings or that I should 'just let him work it out' with the monster kid who just tried to rip his limbs off."

"Wow," said Natalie. "What did you even say to that?"

Crowley flicked his brow upward and curled his lip. "Let's just say that I have acquired a reputation." 

"That has to make it challenging to form alliances with other parents," said Natalie. "How do see yourself taking care of Miran at the park while pregnant?"

"I'm just going to get through it," said Crowley. 

"On your own?", said Natalie. He nodded. 

"Can we talk about your last pregnancy?," said Natalie. "Can you tell me what it was like for you?"

"Look, it's only for a few months. It's not like that's a very long time to someone like me. I've taken naps longer than nine months. I'm not some precious delicate human." He raised an eyebrow. Natalie interpreted that as a roughly equal mix of condescension and bravado. 

"Just thinking about possibilities," said Natalie, "Would you be willing to consider delaying pregnancy for a few months, just to let Miran get a little more independent?"

"Look," said the dragon-angel, "I know you mean well, but I am the world's foremost expert on occult pregnancies. I've done this before, and I know what I'm in for, so thank you for the advice, but I don't need it. Now, let's get on with what we we are here for. Don't you need me to undress or something?"

"I admire your enthusiasm," said Natalie, "But before I examine you, I really am going talk to you and your partner together."

The dragon-man rolled his whole head again to let her know that he was rolling his eyes behind his impenetrable sunglasses. 

"Humor me," said Natalie. "I want to do right by you. I've cleared my whole day so that I could take this nice and slow."

"Hmph," said Crowley. "It's your time to waste, I suppose."

"I do want you to know," said Natalie, "That it would be perfectly normal and expected to have some fears and concerns about another pregnancy, especially after having such a traumatic birth experience the first time."

Crowley shook his head. "I can handle it."

"Isn't there anything you want to ask me about?"

"Just my bones," said Crowley.

"I guess we'll just wait for Aziraphale then," said Natalie.

"Sure thing," said Crowley, "Whatever you want."

They sat in silence for several moments. Natalie pasted an encouraging smile on her face in the hopes that Crowley would start talking. But he didn't. So she tried a new tactic. 

"That's a stunning pendant you're wearing," said Natalie. Crowley looked down and the lines of his face softened. He cupped the bejeweled silver pendant in his hand. 

"It's a seahorse?" Of course it was. Seahorses were the only species where the males gave birth. 

"Yep," said Crowley. He held it out on his palm so she could inspect it. It had a horse-like head with a big eye and a round fat belly and little wings and a curly tail. It was six or seven centimeters high and it was covered in rows of tiny shimmering jewels that made a six color rainbow. 

"I've never seen anything like it."

"Yeah," he said. "Aziraphale gave it to me the day after Miran was born. The rainbow stones are all precious stones: Rubies, emeralds, and all different colored sapphires."

The detail that was most amazing to Natalie was that the seahorse had an eye that was made of a striated yellow stone that was streaked with a single vertical black stripe. 

"The eye," said Natalie, "What kind of stone is that?"

"That's not a precious stone," said Crowley, "It's just quartz."

"It's a sunburst quartz with a rutile inclusion," said Aziraphale. He entered the room carrying a silver tray with a porcelain teapot with matching cups, saucers, creamer, and sugar bowl. The floral embroidery on the cloth napkins matched the image on the tea set. Aziraphale set the tray down on the sofa between Natalie and his mate. 

"It took me three months to obtain that particular stone," said the angel-man, "And then I had to practically stand over the jeweler to make sure she cut it right." He kissed his mate on the top of the head and held out his hand, palm up, in front of Crowley's chest. The dragon-angel sighed, took off his sunglasses and folded them into his partner's hand. 

"I'll just grab a chair from the kitchen and join you," said the angel-man. And he bustled away with the sunglasses.

"He doesn't miss a detail, does he?", said Natalie. 

Crowley met her eyes for the briefest second and he smiled. It was a tiny smile, but it was the first smile Natalie had seen all day that wasn't directed at Miran. 

"Any particular reason you hide your seahorse pendant when you are out in public?"

"A hundred reasons," said Crowley. "But one of them is that one of the families that is safe for Miran to play with is super-conservative, and they are allergic to rainbows."

"Ah."

"Though, I suppose the seahorse thing would go right over their heads," said Crowley. "If they ever figured it out, their poor brains would explode.

"So, when you're pregnant again, that's going to be a big deal," said Natalie, "How are you going to handle telling the other families that Miran plays with?"

"I won't," said Crowley, "They'll just assume that I've gained weight. If they even notice. Men's bodies aren't scrutinized like women's are. I can get through the first five months easy. And then it's time for heavy coats and parkas. We'll skip the parks from December till February, and then baby will be born, and none of them will be the wiser."

"You've got the timing of this all planned out, I see."

"He has _everything_ planned out," said Aziraphale. "Whether his plans will survive contact with reality remains to be seen." 

The angel-man had a kitchen chair in one hand and, in the other, a small plate loaded with a mountain of scallop shaped miniature butter cakes. They were golden yellow and dusted with powdered sugar. Aziraphale set the chair down next to his partner, and held the cakes aloft. Crowley poured the tea and handed Natalie a cup and saucer before taking his own. The dragon-angel placed the teapot carefully to leave precisely enough space on the tray for Aziraphale to set the plate of cakes down. Then the angel-man took a napkin and a cup of tea and a saucer and served himself a cake. He took a sip of his tea and then ate the tiny butter cake in two bites. 

"Do try them," said Aziraphale, gesturing toward the cakes, "I think you'll enjoy the way that the orange zest in the madeleines complements the bergamot in the tea." 

Natalie tried one, and the ancient epicurean was right. The combination was delicious.

Crowley had tea with no sugar or cream. He didn't touch the enormous pile of little sugar-dusted butter cakes, but Aziraphale ate three-quarters of them with absolutely no shame. The angel-man had a cloth napkin, which he politely employed, but, occasionally, when he brought the napkin up to dab at his lips, Natalie could see him surreptitiously licking the powdered sugar off of the very tips his fingers. 

They ate and drank and made companionable noises for a while. When the madeleines were nearly finished, Natalie thought the time had come to speak of serious things. 

"So," she said, "You are thinking of expanding your family."

"We are in the planning stages," said Aziraphale. "It's very important to us both that Miran not be alone."

"Only children can do very well," said Natalie. "You don't necessarily need to have a second baby for that reason."

"Miran is unique," said Aziraphale. "He is the only one like himself that has ever existed. We don't want him to be alone in his experience. When a person is alone in a big world, just having one other person who can truly understand makes all the difference." Crowley nodded and took his mate's hand. 

"When are you thinking that you'll be starting to try?", said Natalie.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance that was fraught with meaning.

"As soon as possible," said Crowley, "As soon as we get confirmation from you that my body is ready."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and then took his hand away and silently poured himself some more tea. 

Rather than attempting to figure out the subtext of that little exchange, Natalie pretended she hadn't noticed it. She just slotted it away in the back of her mind, and she started in on her prepared speech.

"I think I need to start by telling you that there isn't a foolproof way to measure a pelvis to know whether it will be adequate," she said. "I can tell you if its likely to work. I can detect if there are certain obvious problems. But what I can't do is tell you with absolute one hundred percent certainty that the shape of the pelvis will work. There is a lot of natural variation in people's bone shapes, and things tend to move around a bit with pregnancy and labor. Every pelvis is different and every baby is different. The only way to really know with one hundred percent certainty is to try to give birth."

As she was speaking, Natalie watched Crowley's whole face fall. One hand drifted up to his mouth, and he worried the back of his index finger with his teeth. Aziraphale took Crowley's other hand and squeezed it so hard that his own knuckles turned white. 

"That is not what we were hoping to hear," said Aziraphale. 

"But knowing what I know about you both, I think chances are still very good that you could have an uncomplicated vaginal birth," said Natalie. "Ninety percent chance, I'd say, and those odds are as good as I'd give to anyone."

Crowley leaned and whispered something to his mate; Aziraphale responded by knitting his eyebrows together, biting his lip, and slowly shaking his head "no". 

Natalie wished she could give guarantees. One of the older doctors that she was forced to work with when she was just starting out used to have the habit of downplaying risks in order to make the patients feel more confident in him. It was a done thing in the bad old days, part and parcel of the chauvinism towards patients, and especially patients who were poor and female. Natalie had always considered giving one hundred percent guarantees to be unethical. When a medical person gave a breezy and confident guarantee, it made them feel better, but it didn't help the patient to make an informed decision. 

But how tempting it was to give cheerful platitudes. It made the care provider feel, for a moment, that they really could save every patient. It staved off traumatic memories. And every medical provider eventually acquired a collection of traumatic memories-- times when the miracles didn't happen, times when their skills failed in the face of insurmountable challenges, and worst and most shameful, the times when they had made an unforgivable but oh-so-human error, and it cost their patient terribly. Natalie herself had a small collection of traumatic memories that she kept in a little museum in her mind. Anytime she was tempted to cut a corner or succumb to exhaustion, she took a quick mental tour of the exhibit halls and used those horrifying memories to goad herself on. Miran's birth was a showcase exhibit in the "insufficient prenatal care" gallery of horrors. 

Natalie was sad that this couple had had such a terrible birth experience, and she couldn't fault them for being scared to go through another pregnancy and birth. Crowley had nearly died last time. It would make perfect sense if they decided that the risk wasn't worth it. She wished she had the power to erase their fears, but she didn't. All she could offer was honesty. Honesty, and the best birth plan that her considerable influence and their superhuman abilities could provide. 

"Obviously it is a very personal choice, whether to embark on a pregnancy," she said, "But I want you both to know that even in the worst case scenario, the birth would not go like last time. I would never let you go through that again. I have already found a private facility that can take you if surgery were to become necessary. We would do a Cesarean, with anesthesia. We would aim to test every aspect of our plans to make sure they would work with his unique biology. Given a nine month lead time, between myself and the two of you, we can prepare a small team of people to expect and cope with Crowley's non-human body features. And we can prioritize excellent pain management."

"Sounds good to me," said Crowley. He sat up straight, knees pressed together, palms on knees. "Very do-able."

Aziraphale's eyes widened and his lips tightened. He exchanged a significant amount of uncomfortable eye contact with his partner and then, finally, the angel-man huffed. "Tell us more about this worst case plan," he said. 

Natalie talked the couple through the worst case and the best case, and everything in between. The entire time, Crowley was sitting with one of his arms crossed over his chest and with his other hand massaging his chin and lips. He nodded from time to time. Aziraphale sat stiffly with his hands holding the saucer and cup in his lap and his eyes darting back and forth between Natalie and his mate. When Natalie finished speaking, he seemed wary and resigned. 

Wary and resigned was not the look Natalie wanted to see on the face of a prospective parent. There was clearly a big issue that needed to be addressed. The two of them were not on the same page as each other, and Natalie didn't know why. If she could suss out what the conflict point was, there might be clarifying information that she could supply that would help bridge the distance between them. But whatever the issue was, they didn't seem to want to talk to her about it. Perhaps an oblique approach would work.

"So it seems we have a plan for how we might manage a labor and delivery, if you chose to go forward," said Natalie. "But now I want to talk about the bigger question: does a pregnancy actually make sense for your family at this time?" 

"That part is none of your business," said Crowley. "That's up to us."

"True," said Natalie, "But, no matter what your decision is, there may be a lot to be gained by spending the next few months bringing a few extra supports on board. Let me tell you some of things that I can offer."

Crowley seemed a little sulky, but Aziraphale perked up. 

"Don't be stubborn," said the angel-man. He patted his mate on the knee. "We may as well avail ourselves of every resource we can. If it's going to take a while to get things working anyway."

Jackpot. 

"Is something not working?", said Natalie. 

"It's nothing," said Crowley. "It's fine."

"Actually we should ask about it," said Aziraphale, to his partner. "It's one of _my_ concerns."

"Ask away," said Natalie. "I'm here to help."

"Well the problem is," said Aziraphale. "Well, we can't seem to, that is, well, his body isn't behaving like it did before."

"This is ridiculous," said the dragon-angel to his mate. Then he said something in a language that wasn't English.

"Don't be rude, darling," said the angel-man. 

Crowley made a strangled noise of frustration and then threw his arms up over his head, covering his face and fisting his hands in his hair. 

Aziraphale threw his hands up. "I don't know how you expect to--"

  
Crowley untangled his hands from his hair and grabbed fistfuls of air. "She doesn't want to hear about that stuff," he said "It's not relevant to her job." 

"Why don't I decide whether its relevant or not?", said Natalie. "I really do want to understand everything that's going on. It will make it a lot easier for me to help you."

There was silence. The two angels stared daggers at each other. 

"What if I step out of the room so that you two can discus this privately?", said Natalie.

More silence.

"I'll just go get some more tea from the kitchen," said Natalie. She shut the door of the parlor behind her. 

Natalie walked the four steps to where the narrow hall opened into the kitchen. She took the kettle off the stove, poured some hot water into the sediment at the bottom of her cup, and then sat down at the tiny kitchen table with her back to the stove. She tried not to eavesdrop as she sipped her lightly flavored water and stared at the bedroom door that was opposite the table. Crowley and Aziraphale's flat was so small that their only bedroom was right off of the kitchen. 

The conversation that Natalie couldn't avoid overhearing had turned into a shouting match. The language the angels used was not English, but Natalie understood the timbre of it well enough. There were accusations and counter-accusations and the child's name was mentioned twice. Then there was more shouting and some crying. And then, suddenly, from the other side of bedroom door right that was right in front of her, Natalie heard the sound of a much smaller person crying. The parlor door was flung open and Crowley dashed into the kitchen, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. He threw open the bedroom door. 

On the other side of the doorway, Miran was sitting in the middle of his parent's great big four-poster bed. He was crying. His wings were fluttering and his face was red. His plump cheeks were red and glistening with tears and his chin was wobbling. His little hands were fisted and trembling in front of his belly. 

"Dada Dada Dada!", he said, as Crowley walked into the bedroom. 

Aziraphale came walking after his mate. He stood near the kitchen wall just outside the bedroom and said something in the other language, and his tone was very firm. Crowley spat some angry words back as he wrapped himself bodily around his toddler and started rocking himself and his child. Miran clung to his father's chest and made confused sobbing noises. 

"Daddy is here," said Crowley. "Daddy is sorry he woke you. Everything is fine. No Daddy is fine. Not angry. Not sad. Not anymore. Miran makes Daddy happy. See? Daddy is smiling. No. Papa is happy too." 

"It's fine, Merry," said Aziraphale. And he stood in the kitchen, arms folded, watching his mate and child as they calmed down. 

"Gibba?", said Miran.

"Okay," said Crowley, "Let's go find Gibba-doll." He carried the child past Aziraphale and Natalie and headed to the parlor. Aziraphale followed and entered the parlor and quietly said something to him in the other language. The flat was so small that the open parlor door was only six steps away from where she was sitting in the kitchen. Natalie could hear every word. 

"Really?", Crowley replied. "It's like that?" 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "It is. Now, shall I send her away? I don't feel like wasting any more of her time."

Crowley snarled in the other language. Aziraphale said something else, and Crowley replied again. Aziraphale answered but his tone has changed. He seemed less angry. And then Crowley replied and finally Aziraphale said something that sounded very conciliatory. 

"That's fair," the dragon-angel replied. 

There was silence for a half a minute, and then the sound of Miran babbling and Crowley murmuring. Aziraphale emerged from the parlor with the tea tray. He set it on the table and sat down at the table. He pressed his hands together and touched them to his lips. He sighed. 

"It's not easy for him to talk about, even between the two of us," said Aziraphale. "And, frankly, if we weren't interested having another child in the next year or so, we would just continue to work around the problem as we have done for the past year and a half. Things don't work the same for us as they do for humans, so it isn't really a big deal if we don't return to normal for a few years." He made a huffing noise. "So," he said, "This is what is happening: Ever--"

"I would prefer," said Natalie, "If Crowley himself were to describe what was happening with his own body."

"Just let Aziraphale talk," said a voice from the parlor. Well, at least he was listening. 

"We don't blame you at all, of course," said Aziraphale, "We know these things happen, and we are very grateful to have Miran. But ever since Miran's birth, Crowley hasn't been the same."

"In what way?", said Natalie. Inside her mind, she was frantically reviewing every interaction she'd had with her patient after the birth. There weren't many of them. Crowley was a closed book. 

"Well," said Aziraphale, "The very act that is required to produce a pregnancy is very painful for him. I would go so far as to say that it is impossible."

"It's been a year and a half," said Natalie. "Have you been unable to have vaginal intercourse ever since the birth?" 

The angel-man nodded, and Natalie's brain imploded. She was incredulous and furious. She wanted to run into the other room and scream at her patient, and demand to know why he hadn't told her. Her thoughts chased themselves in dizzy circles, howling "How?", "How?". And a small part of her mind, the part that had been ringing the alarm bells for the last hour, was feeling just a little bit smug. "See?", it said, "Now all the pieces are starting to come together."

What she said was: "I am so sorry. I wish I had known."

She didn't say "you _should_ have told me", because it was her responsibility to make sure that she was the sort of person who they trusted to tell these things to. Clearly she had failed. Natalie made a second mental review of every conversation she had ever had with either of them to find the clues that she had missed. In the conversation that she had had with Crowley seven weeks after Miran's birth, she had asked about sex. She had asked about birth control and she had asked about whether sex was comfortable. She had, in fact, asked twice, because vaginal pain in the months after a birth was a common problem. He had said that birth control wasn't an issue for creatures like him and that penetrative sex was "fine". Which clearly meant "not fine." Damned liar. And she hadn't pressed him any further, so she had missed it, and he had suffered for over a year. 

Her face must have shown her shame, because the angel-man was suddenly trying to comfort her. "It's not all that bad," said Aziraphale. "Really. Please don't fret on our account. As I've said, there was nothing to be done about it and we found ways to work around the problem."

Of course they had. Just like humans in their position would. It made sense. They were queer and, in their own way, socially marginalized. Natalie knew the pattern well. A privileged heterosexual couple with the same problem would be in a doctor's office demanding the instant restoration of the one particular type of sex they felt entitled to. But queer folks, even though they suffered disproportionately from pelvic pain and sexual dysfunction, were more likely to just quietly deal with it on their own. They expected to have to be creative and emotionally flexible when it came to intimacy. And they didn't expect their medical professionals to care terribly much about their sexual needs. It was a sad and familiar pattern, but one she understood. 

"I think that perhaps if we are very patient, we can do what we must to achieve pregnancy," said Aziraphale. "But if it's so uncomfortable for him to accommodate me, it makes me worry that perhaps a natural birth would be impossible too. Though he says he is willing, I'm not sure if I can bear putting him through it again. And, frankly, thinking of what he went through last time puts quite a damper on my enthusiasm for the necessary act."

"Why on Earth didn't you mention this to me last year?", said Natalie.

"We didn't think there was anything to be done for it," said Aziraphale. "I was as certain as I could be that I had healed every birth injury. There didn't seem to be any reason for his pain at all, and we assumed it would get better in time. And we do have a wide repertoire, so we were able to have relations in a satisfactory enough manner." 

" 'Wide repertoire'?", she said. "Can you explain what that means for you?" 

Aziraphale blinked a few times. He seemed to be a bit confused about what to say next.

Crowley stuck his head into the hall. "He means that I've had a cock this whole time," said Crowley, "From a few months after Miran was born, up till three weeks ago." 

And, just like that, any sense of understanding evaporated. 

"Oh," said Natalie. 

Of course. Shapeshifters. Right. Not queer humans. Aliens. When Natalie tried to put her watery ersatz tea to her lips, she found that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. She drank few sips of barely flavored warm water and tried to collect herself. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale had turned around in his chair to reprimand his mate. "Language," he said, "This is the 'word-a-day' phase."

"Just as a point of information:," said Natalie, "Can you both choose? I mean, if he wanted, could Aziraphale carry a baby?"

"I'm afraid I've never been as good at the finer details as Crowley is," said the angel-man. And Natalie decided that was all she needed to know about that. 

Ten minutes later Natalie and Aziraphale were sitting on the sofa in the parlor and the angel-man was explaining all the ways that shapeshifting hedonists could enjoy or, as the case was, fail to enjoy, sex. To prevent the toddler from hearing any four letter words, Aziraphale would drop Latin phrases into his English sentences. Natalie made use of an online translator to supplement her spotty knowledge of Latin. Crowley's verbal contributions were rare, but he sometimes made an illustrative gesture to clarify things when Natalie got confused. Mostly, he lay on the floor playing tea party with Miran and two stuffed toys named Bunny and Gibba-doll. 

Once she had recovered from absorbing the full implications of what it meant to be able to remold one's sexual organs at will, the thing that was striking to Natalie was how relatively limited Crowley was. Things were more complicated for Crowley than for a human, because of his and his mates' versatility, but the pattern that emerged was that his body tended to seize up and prevent penetration, most especially when he had a vagina, but also in general when he attempted intimacy of any sort in any position that reminded him of his torturous birth experience. He couldn't even straddle his partner's lap to kiss him without having flashbacks that left him trembling and crying. 

Crowley's wasn't the first case of birth trauma Natalie had ever seen, and she was kicking herself for not having caught it when she'd done the post-natal screening with him last year. But she had asked every question, twice to be sure, and he'd given all the right answers. Fortunately for Crowley, he could equip himself with a penis and penetrate his partner, and, when Natalie had asked him about sex after Miran's birth, he had not completely lied, in the sense that penetrative sex was perfectly comfortable for him. He had simply failed to provide the critical context that would have let Natalie know what was really happening. And if a person, or angel-dragon, commits a lie of omission when talking to their medical professional about their sex life, they get inadequate healthcare. 

Because of the shapeshifting aspect, the entire conversation was bizarre, but there was an additional layer of insanity to the whole thing because of the counterpoint that the toddler's tea party provided. The conversation went like this:

". . . can't bear to be touched at all . . .", Aziraphale was saying.

"I'd like the cup with the pink rose, please," said Crowley.

" . . . a nightmare, and getting worse the more we try . . ."

"Here is the sugar bowl," said Crowley.

". . . even a finger is unbearably painful . . ."

"Would Gibba-doll like some cream for their tea?"

". . . a sensation like sandpaper . . ."

"No cream for Bunny."

". . . and he's shaking and crying . . ."

"Oooooh is this scone for me? Looks yummy."

" . . . no relief . . ."

"Bunny likes the lemon curd, but Gibba-doll wants jam."

". . . the idea of hurting him is so repellent that I've completely lost interest . . ."

"Gibba-doll is very hungry aren't they?"

". . . cranky, angry, frustrated . . ."

"Oh no, Bunny has knocked over the teapot. What should we do?"

". . . come to think of it, 'withdrawn' is exactly the word . . ."

"The Poppet family wants to come to tea, too?"

"You see?", concluded Aziraphale. The angel-man gestured at the tea party on the floor, which now had seven doll guests, to whom Miran and Crowley were distributing alphabet block 'pastries'. "He does _this_ whenever I try to get him to talk about it."

"Wow," said Natalie, "That's horrible." She turned to the man-shaped creature lying on the floor. "Do you think you could come up here and sit with us and talk about this?"

"What's there to add?", said Crowley. "He covered it all. Nothing else to talk about." He turned to his child. "This block has a picture of an apple. Do you think Gibba-doll would like an apple?"

"What was your plan, then?", said Natalie, "You were just going to tough it out and hope it got better on its own?"

"Honestly," said the dragon-angel, "It's a mind over matter game, and I thought that if I knew for sure that my bones were the right shape, then I'd be able to make myself relax enough that I could get through. Just need to do it a few times. It didn't take long for me to catch with the first baby."

"Puh! Puh! Gibba," said Miran. 

Natalie was gobsmacked. She just sat there with her jaw open shaking her head back and forth. How could this powerful inhuman creature think so little of himself that he was willing to live like this? She turned to Aziraphale. "But this isn't okay with you, right?"

"Well," said the angel-man, "I, too, am willing to be limited for the next nine or ten months, if that's what it takes to for us get the family we want, but I'm loathe to allow him to be put in position where he has another horrible birth experience. And, from where I sit, I don't see how we can avoid that. If his body won't let me in, how can it possibly let a baby out?"

"It's different when you give birth," said Crowley, "Your body just opens up automatically."

Natalie raised a finger to object to this statement, but Crowley was on a roll.

"Humans can do all kinds of artificial insemination things, and, by next month or so, if we're still not able to do things the regular way, Natalie can get us whatever equipment we need to do it the scientific way," said Crowley.

Aziraphale said something very adamant in the not-English language.

"Now who is being rude to our guest?", said Crowley. 

"So sorry," said Aziraphale. He turned to Natalie. "I was just saying to my partner: 'I'm unwilling to rape you with a turkey baster, you dearly beloved idiot." 

Crowley said one very sharp word in the other language. Aziraphale turned to Natalie and opened his mouth to speak.

"I think I've got the meaning of that one," said Natalie. "No need to translate."

"So?", said Crowley, "Can you help us?"

"I think," said Natalie, "That I would feel very irresponsible letting you continue to believe that a person who can't stand to have their genitals so much as touched is on track to have an uncomplicated pregnancy followed by a safe and easy vaginal birth. Birth is a mental game as much as anything, and if your body is shutting down sex, it's trying to tell you something. I think we should listen to it."

Crowley looked mutinous. "What about my bones?", he said.

"If your partner can't touch your body, how am I supposed to?", said Natalie.

The dragon-angel made an angry sound. Miran offered him a tea-cup with a block inside it, and patted him on the shoulder. Then the toddler brought over another block and another and another. 

"Nummy biscuits," said Crowley. "Mmmmmmmm. Thank you sweetie." 

"A few months," said Natalie. "If you can be willing to put off thinking about pregnancy for a few months, we may be able to help you to retrain your body. I know a pelvic pain specialist who might be able to help. She has worked with a lot of folks in the transgender community. I can either refer you directly to her, or, if you don't feel comfortable seeing her, I can talk your case over with her, and get her recommendations." 

Aziraphale nodded. He looked down at his mate, lying on the floor in the middle of the blocks and the dolls, and he met Crowley's eyes and stared him down, until the dragon-angel finally nodded his assent. 

Natalie made the phone call right there in the parlor. Because they knew her at the pelvic pain clinic, and she knew the magic words to say, they gave her a double-sized appointment slot only three days out. She wrote down the time and the address and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to Aziraphale. Then she texted the same information to Crowley.

"Huh," said Crowley, as he poked at his mobile. "I guess London has a specialist in everything. How many men with vaginas that hurt too much to have sex can there possibly be?"

"You'd be surprised," said Natalie. "Do I have your permission to talk to her about your case?"

"Not the bits about the--"

"Not the shapeshifting, not the wings, not the inhuman stuff," said Natalie. 

"Yes please," said Aziraphale, taking his mate's hand. "That would be very helpful. I am done watching him suffer."


	3. Appointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalie sends a non-human to an appointment with a specialist.

"Now what?", said the dragon-angel. 

Crowley was sitting on a big pink pillow on the floor. The pillow had a pig head and four fluffy black trotter feet hanging off its sides. Crowley was leaning against the sofa, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, one hand holding his mobile phone, and the other hand snaked over his own shoulder and wrapped around his partner's hand. He was making appreciative noises and little smacks of his lips as his toddler held wooden blocks up to his mouth. 

"Puh puh," said the toddler. 

"Apple. Num num," said Crowley. "Thank you."

The truth was, Natalie wasn't sure what was next. She'd gotten a bit ahead of herself. She had pulled some strings, of course, but she had expected that even with her personal connection, the nearest appointment with a pelvic pain specialist would be at least a month out. The good luck of getting an appointment in three days, and with the exact person she hoped for, was a nice omen, and she took it as such. But it was a bit of a short time frame to get this patient ready. And her own schedule was booked solid for the next two days. So Natalie had just today to prepare a skittish dragon-angel-person to act human convincingly enough to get a good diagnosis. 

In all likelihood, it would be fine. Amy was the best person possible in terms of handling this particularly challenging patient. The fact that the patient was male and had birth trauma wouldn't even make Amy blink, and she was masterful at taming fearful patients. A slightly inconsistent personal narrative in an anxious patient wouldn't make her suspect that he was non-human. But still, now that the appointment was made, Natalie was starting to wish she hadn't been quite so aggressive about scheduling it. 

The eyes could be explained away somehow or another. But the patient's body had such a strange mix of gender traits. Natalie knew of a handful of intersex conditions, but none of them gave the specific set of traits that Crowley had. Best to call him a transgender male. Natalie suspected that, to a true expert, there would subtle things about his body that wouldn't fit into the story. But she'd just have to hope that Amy wouldn't pick up on them. There were such wide natural variations in how bodies and hormones interacted. As long as Crowley acted like a human and didn't sprout wings, Amy would have no reason to suspect the truth. 

"I just need a moment," Natalie said. She borrowed a pad of paper and pencil from Aziraphale and wrote a checklist. While she worked, Miran ferried alphabet blocks from a cloth bin on the floor to his parents' laps. 

"Amy is one the very best in her business," said Natalie, at last. "And she is a friend of mine, so it is very important to me that you don't scare her."

"Got it," said Crowley. "Easy."

"My biggest concern is that you don't show your wings or your scales or anything not human. Now, I've noticed that those body changes happen when you are more stressed. Our first--"

"As long as Miran and I are there," said Aziraphale, "Crowley will not get to that level of agitation." The angel-man accepted an alphabet block from his toddler and set it down on the sofa beside him. He met Natalie's eyes with incredible calmness and confidence. "I promise. No wings or scales."

"Okay," Natalie said. She took a calming breath and checked the first item off her list. She could trust the angel-man to take care of the biggest worry. It was better, anyway, for her to focus on the things she could control. She moved to item number two. Crowley wasn't even looking at her, so she addressed herself to Aziraphale. "There's a lot of information that Amy is going to want from him, and some of the questions she would ask a human person won't apply. I think that we can carefully craft our answers to those questions and still get the benefit of her diagnostic skills for the pain problem. Are you willing to do that?"

"Absolutely," said Aziraphale. "We have plenty of time for you to coach us." He smiled again. "Which reminds me, you'll need to tell us what blood pressure he is supposed to have. That has been a problem in the past."

"Noted," said Natalie. "I'm adding it to the list. I assume you two do not have NHS numbers?"

"I do have a number," said Aziraphale, "For the shop. For taxes. If that's helpful."

"Thank you Miran," said Crowley. "I like how you share your apples. Now I have four apples."

"Okay," said Natalie. "You know what, we'll deal with records later, lets start with the basics." She turned to the man-shaped person sitting at her feet. "Crowley, do you have any objection to us presenting you as a transgender male human?"

"Fine by me," Crowley said. He held out his hand, palm up, towards Miran. 

"Puh," said Miran. He placed an alphabet block in his father's hand.

"Thank you," said Crowley. "Now Daddy has four plus one equals five apples."

Natalie cleared her throat, and waited for the dragon-angel to turn his face up towards her again.

"There are going to be specific questions that you are going to need to answer about your body's daily functioning and about your medical transition and your hormone regimen."

"Yep, easy 'nough," said Crowley. He accepted another block from his child. "Thank you sweetie. Num num. Very tasty." 

Natalie looked over at Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale pursed his lips as he regarded the man-shaped creature who was reclining next to his legs. He shook his head in what was either affection or annoyance. 

"I'll take Miran now," said Aziraphale. "Come to Papa, Merry. Papa wants to play trot-trot." He held out his hands and Crowley lifted the child up onto his mate's lap. Then Aziraphale prodded Crowley with his foot. "Put those blocks down. You need to stop playing and start concentrating."

Crowley grunted and obeyed. He turned to face Natalie from his position on the pig pillow on the floor.

"Don't worry," said Crowley, "If I say the wrong thing, it won't matter, I'll just . . ." He waved his hand in a funny gesture. "I'll smooth it over. It'll be fine. I'm great at dealing with hu-people."

"If you mess with her head," said Natalie, "You'll get what you deserve: bad care. If you are evasive and inconsistent about basic details, she's going to start screening you for dysphoria, psychosis, and domestic abuse and she'll be on the wrong path. How you present yourself is going to matter a lot in terms of getting the right diagnosis and treatment."

While she talked, Crowley absently picked up two alphabet blocks and fiddled with them in his hands, rolling them between his fingers. He made a bunch of little exhalations and mouth noises. He stared off into the middle distance as his fingers and mouth worked. 

"Crowley," said Natalie. "I'm up here. If you plan to waste the time of the only pelvic floor specialist in London who is qualified to do trauma-informed care for a birth injured transgender male, then I will cancel your appointment." She stared down at the dragon-angel on the floor. "This woman is one of my most valued professional contacts. I will not squander her goodwill."

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath. Then he tossed the blocks to the floor and rolled off the pig pillow and stood up. He moved the pillow out of the way and pulled the wooden chair over so that he was a polite distance away from Natalie. Then he sat down, crossed his legs at the knees, threaded his hands together in his lap, and after a brief glance at his mate, nodded at Natalie. "Go ahead," he said. "I'm listening." 

On the other side of the sofa from Natalie, Aziraphale appeared to be looking at Miran bouncing on his knees, but his eyes crinkled a little bit and the corner of his mouth twitched. He whispered: "Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross to see a fine lady upon a white horse . . ."

"Good," said Natalie. "Amy is going to ask detailed questions about certain bodily functions that I suspect you don't deal with very often, and you are going to need to give the right answers."

Crowley nodded. Natalie spent the next twenty minutes carefully explaining the average human patterns of urination, defecation and menstruation, and all the vocabulary words that might be used to describe problems in these domains. Crowley nodded along and repeated the words after her, with stumbling earnestness. 

"So I urinate about, um, six times a day," he said, "and I don't have any, um, difficulties, with starting the, um, the urinating. Or, um, leaking? And no burning feeling at all."

Natalie occasionally looked over at Aziraphale. His job was to distract the toddler to allow his partner to concentrate on memorizing the right phrases, but he seemed to be listening carefully even as he quietly sang little songs about galloping and trotting. Whenever he was looking at his child, Aziraphale was smiling, but whenever he glanced over at Natalie and Crowley the angel-man's expression devolved into a sort of resolute queasiness. As he listened to his mate's recitation on defecation, an expression of frank disgust crossed his face. And then, all at once, the angel-man seemed to become aware of Natalie staring at him, and the look on his face changed from disgust to pained compassion.

"I'm sorry for my rudeness, Natalie," said the angel-man, "I'm sure that all of these acts of elimination seem quite ordinary to you. Naturally, I can't help but be aware that humans use the sexual body parts for these baser functions. But I don't normally imagine the details so vividly. To be honest, I try to put it out of mind. It is very unsettling to imagine my lover's body doing those filthy things."

"Of course," said Natalie. It must be nice to be an angel, she thought. Every body part below the belt was purely for recreational use. She felt a not insignificant twinge of jealousy. Then it occurred to her, as she watched Aziraphale bouncing his toddler, that he'd probably also never changed a nappy or had the baby get sick on him or even had to wipe a runny nose. Lucky bastard. 

". . .so that one happens every day, in the morning, like clockwork," Crowley said. "And the other one, the menstruation, I have to say for six days every month from when I was sixteen years old--", said Crowley.

"Thirteen years old," said Natalie.

"Right, thirteen years and every month like a normal . . ."

"Okay Merry," whispered Aziraphale, "Papa can do it again. This is the way the ladies ride . . ."

Crowley paused his recitation and turned to his partner. "Why do you do that one with him? That song is so sexist."

"It's traditional," replied the angel-man. "Now pay attention to your work."

"Not all traditions are good," said Crowley. He turned back to Natalie. "Right. Every month from when I was thirteen years old, until I was nineteen and then I started taking the-- what was that drug stuff? Testrone?"

"Testosterone. I'll write it down for you," said Natalie, "We have all afternoon. Remember, when in doubt, you can always say 'no pain' or 'I don't remember'. "

"This is the way the gentlemen ride . . .", said Aziraphale.

"Wait!", said Crowley. He suddenly looked confident. "Testosterone! I do know what that is! It's that invisible stuff in their blood that men use to blame their stupid personal decisions on! Am I supposed to act like I have no self-control or something?"

"No," said Natalie, "No need to change your behaviors. Just give the answers I tell you to."

"Ah well," said Crowley. "Can't expect to terrorize the doctors every day." He nodded happily and poked at his mobile. "S'nice, actually, that humans found a way to make their bodies fit them better. Lot less suffering for them." He poked at his mobile again. "Hey, how come I'm only supposed to have started the testosterone when I was nineteen though? Wouldn't I have been better off getting it earlier? This site says earlier is better."

"You'd have been extremely lucky to get it at nineteen. Especially twenty years ago. Some people didn't get a diagnosis until they were in midlife. Even now, wait times can be two or three years to get a prescription though NHS. But we are pretending that you were always a wealthy person, so you got the best private care from the beginning."

"Right," said Crowley. "Age nineteen, it is."

"This is the way the farmers ride," said Aziraphale. "Hobblety hobblety . . ."

After another hour of rehearsal, Miran could no longer be distracted and Natalie and Aziraphale needed to eat, so they all walked to a nearby restaurant where Aziraphale ordered tempura and seaweed salad and a half-dozen other things that Natalie didn't recognize but which were all very good. Crowley had a cup of hot tea and Miran happily slipped his fingers through a bowl of cold noodles. 

"Udon, Merry," said the angel-man. "Udon is good. You can put it in your mouth and chew it up like Papa does. Yummy."

Miran dragged a fistful of noodles along his lips. "Num, num", he said. Then he put the noodles back into the bowl and squished them with his fingers. 

After lunch, they walked to a quiet park. Natalie and Crowley and Aziraphale sat on a bench near a pond. Miran knelt at Aziraphale's feet and poked at a pile of pebbles with a stick. Crowley sat in the middle of the bench and leaned back against his mate. 

"I think I have a strategy for dealing with the lack of medical records," said Natalie. "We'll say you abandoned your old number when you began transitioning and you didn't see a UK doctor for any of the medical aspects of your transition. You handled all your own blood tests through private labs and you bought the testosterone through the black market and you dosed yourself. You went to the US for top surgery. You had no encounters with a medical professional in the UK up till the day of Miran's birth."

" 'Kay", said Crowley. "Black market for testosterone and abroad for surgery, got it."

"Its rather like being a spy, isn't it?", said Aziraphale. "We are learning our cover story. Very exciting. I love the thrill of playing spy."

"Just let me do the talking Angel," said Crowley. "Deceptions aren't your strong suit." 

"Now, now," said Aziraphale "I'm better than you think. I've detected a flaw in the cover story. The specialist might be less sympathetic to Crowley if she thinks he is reckless enough to act as his own doctor and buy drugs on the black market. We should consider a more normal excuse for why he hasn't seen a doctor in decades."

Natalie sighed. "Unfortunately, it is plenty normal for a transgender person to do this in the UK. Waiting times just for an initial consult with a specialist are out of control. People get desperate and they turn to the black market. And this story fits with Crowley's independent personality."

"We're going with Natalie's story," said Crowley. "Don't complicate things." 

Miran crawled up onto the bench and into Crowley's lap. He pulled at his father's glove until it came off and he started to feed. Aziraphale took the opportunity to reach around and brush the dirt off of the toddler's knees and off of the bottom tips of his wings. 

"Next issue is scars," said Natalie.

"I handled that completely," said Aziraphale. "That ghastly scar was completely gone by the time Miran was three weeks old." 

"You are talking about the scar over his pubic bone, right?", said Natalie, "Without that scar, you would have to lie about how the birth happened."

"I'm not putting it back!", said Aziraphale. "I would never do such a thing to him. He couldn't stand to look at himself till it was gone."

"Okay then," said Natalie. "That means you can't mention the surgery. You'll just say that it was an extremely traumatic and painful breech birth. You can safely tell her about the obstruction and the manipulations that we had to do to free Miran. There was tearing too, you should mention that."

Crowley's face had gone pale and slack. He was staring off in the direction of a tree. In his lap, Miran made an unhappy noise and pulled on his father's forearm to reposition his hand. 

"Crowley, what if I were to be the one to give Amy a description of how the birth happened?", said Natalie. "I'll send a message with all the details. Then you won't have to talk to her about it if you aren't ready."

Crowley bit his lower lip and made a small nod, which might have been intended to be an answer. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through Miran's curls. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale, "That would be appreciated." He was stoking his partner's back in little circles. 

"Moving on to his chest," said Natalie, "If he is posing as a transgender human then there need to be scars on his chest. They can be subtle. Crowley, is that something that's possible for you to do?"

"If you send Crowley a reference picture on his mobile, I'm certain he'll be able to do that easily enough," said the angel-man. "He's excellent at transformations."

"I'm sorry," said Crowley. He looked at his mate. "I don't think I can. I mean, I can say the words about the body functions and stuff, but I don't think I can actually go through with the rest. Her friend is going to want to see. . . she's right. What she said earlier. If I can barely let you touch me . . . I don't to waste anyone's time is all." He looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry sweetheart. I'll try harder. I promise. Things will get better for us." Then he pulled his winged child tightly against his chest and he stood up and he walked over to the edge of the pond with Miran. 

"Don't cancel the appointment," said Aziraphale. "He just needs some time. He usually settles down in about ten or fifteen minutes. He will probably change his mind again. He really does want another child so badly." 

Crowley didn't talk to Natalie again that day. Natalie sat on the bench with Aziraphale for another half-hour, watching Crowley slowly make his way around the pond with his child. Crowley and Miran held hands and walked at a toddler's pace. Every few steps, Crowley would crouch down next to his child to point to the ducks and geese or to examine some small thing that Miran had seen in the mud at the water's edge. At one point, something unseen caused a dozen waterfowl that were near to them to suddenly startle and take flight. A moment later the child's peals of laughter echoed across the little pond. Crowley swept his child into his hands and held him aloft. Miran's grey wings unfurled out to their full width and beat the air as his shrieks of joy filled the air. 

========================================

Three days later, at lunch time, Natalie was working in her office with the door closed, waiting for a call. Crowley's special double-sized appointment had been from 8 AM to 9:40 AM. She didn't even know if he had showed up for it. 

The phone rang. It was Amy. 

"Your patient came in this morning," she said.

"How did it go?", said Natalie. "What did you think of him?"

"What did I think of him?", said Amy, "Well let's see: He's a 38 year old transgender male with an undiagnosed and untreated congenital eye problem. He did an entirely self-managed transition in his twenties and has self-prescribed all his own hormones for decades. He had an unplanned pregnancy, received no prenatal care and attempted a 'free birth' that nearly killed him and the baby. And now he's only willing to talk to me because the birth damaged his body and mind so much that he hasn't been able to fuck for a year and a half. What do I think? I'm worried about the kid. I mean, he's a cute little guy, he seems normal, but has he ever seen a doctor? Is he vaccinated?"

"I've got that covered," said Natalie, "Miran is receiving all appropriate medical care. And Crowley is planning on getting prenatal care from me for any future pregnancies." 

"Where do you find these people?"

"They found me," said Natalie. "My question is: Can you work with this guy?"

"Oh yeah. Though he is weird. So the sunglasses are for the eye thing, but what's with the gloves? Is that because of the kid . . .?"

"Yes. His toddler sucks on his fingers for comfort."

"I saw him do it. I thought that was it. And the father just adapted his whole lifestyle to keep his hands germ free so his kid can suck on his hands anytime. That's just a whole new level of spoiling a child. The kid is cute and all with the wings and the little skirt, but, just, oh my goodness. Whenever the kid said any little thing, it was like I wasn't even in the room. All his attention is on the kid. The partner had to keep redirecting him so that he'd talk to me. I mean, you're going to a specialist for your intimate problems, you get a damned babysitter."

"I don't believe they trust anyone with their child," said Natalie.

"Not very trusting of anyone," said Amy. "Are they in a cult?" 

Why hadn't Natalie thought of a cult? That was perfect. 

"Not anymore," said Natalie, "They're out now. But they are still very self-reliant and isolated."

"Well, I think he is going to work with me," said Amy. "He's motivated because he wants a second child. But your patient is starting from a pretty bad place. He can't describe his non-sexual symptoms in a consistent way. He denies having memories of the birth. He had dissociative episodes in the office. He couldn't disrobe."

"The birth was a horror-show," said Natalie. "He was in labor for days. In the final hour he was in and out of consciousness from the pain. Give him credit. He's a survivor." 

"Fucking cult, was it?". Amy made an angry noise. "I'm glad the family all got out together. Whatever they went through, the family seems really stable. The partner is supportive. And smart. I got more answers out of him than I did from the patient. And, like I said, Crowley himself is absolutely dedicated to their child. I was able to use that. He is calmed by the touch of his toddler, so I ended up having the kid sit in his lap while he answered questions. Next time I'm going to have him hold the toddler while I put hands on his clothed body. We'll see if that works."

"Miran is a cutie," said Natalie. "I'm glad he's a good assistant for you." 

"It's going to be a while before I can do a thorough physical examination. I'm guessing, at this point, that the biggest strand in this multi-strand problem is the psychological piece, and since that is what is blocking me from being able to do the physical exam, I'm starting there. If you can help with making sure that he complies with his at home treatment regimen, that would be a big help. When I'm able to do a physical examination, I'll share my findings with you." 

"Sounds good," said Natalie. "I'll visit him tonight and encourage him to comply."

"I'm not done with you, Natalie," said Amy, "I read your initial description of this birth, and it's very detailed. You even note the position the parent was in during delivery. But the patient and his partner can't talk about it coherently. Did you deliver this child?" 

"Absolutely not," said Natalie. Lying was so much easier by phone. "If you talk to the partner separately, he can give you a detailed description of the birth. But if they are together, Crowley's anxiety derails the discussion. It took me a few conversations with the partner to piece together the whole delivery story."

"Whew," said Amy. "That's good. I knew you were a bit mad, but this sort of thing . . . I'm glad to hear that you weren't involved with this cult birth crap."

"Of course not," said Natalie. "But, now that I'm involved with this family, I'm helping to pick up the pieces."

"Well," said Amy, "I am collecting evidence. I would gleefully testify against this cult. I really hate the person that wrecked this man. Do you have the name of the person who delivered this child?"

"You can try," said Natalie. "But I don't think anyone is going to get that information out of them. They are incredibly loyal to the person that they credit with saving Crowley and their baby."

"But that person endangered them in the first place with this whole free birth nonsense."

"The sense I get is that the person who assisted at the birth was not in the cult and had no involvement during the pregnancy. As far as I can tell, the first time they got any kind of outside assistance was during the birth itself."

"Wow," said Amy. "Are they still loyal to the other cult members? Can we get names for them?" 

"I think they might be afraid to confront the others. They might be hiding from them." said Natalie. "It's hard to tell." 

As she said the words, Natalie realized that they were true. On the day of Miran's birth, Crowley had been afraid that some group of people had stolen the baby. And Azriaphale hadn't seemed at all surprised by that particular hallucination. Crowley and Aziraphale were in hiding from the other angels. And these angels were not nice. Maybe it was illegal for angels to have babies. No wonder they were so anxiously protective of Miran.

"Hopefully as this family gets more integrated into society," said Amy, "We can convince them that its safe to bring the information into the light. It scares me to know that these cultists are still out there somewhere."

"Yes," said Natalie. "It scares me too." 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Natalie spent the next hours sleep-walking through her day. She was wondering if a bunch of avenging angels were going to swoop down and smite her for the crime of saving Miran and Crowley. And she was feeling pretty alone. Lying to a colleague didn't make her feel good. It made her feel unsafe. It reminded her that she had no one at all to talk to about this family. No one to bounce ideas off of. No one to reassure her that she was doing alright. No one to double check her judgements against. Even her half-honest conversation with Amy had given her a new and troubling insight. What would she have figured out if she been able to be completely honest? 

As the hours crept on, Natalie found that she really didn't want to go to visit the bookshop in Soho. She left work as early as she could and went to a chain restaurant and bought herself a cheeseburger piled high with mushrooms and sauteed onions and pickles and a whole bunch of unidentifiable but amazingly addictive sauces. As she sunk her teeth into to the greasy fast food masterpiece, she imagined Aziraphale tutting at her. He would probably never eat such low cuisine. But for Natalie there was no denying the comforting grounding feeling of a belly full of heavy satisfying food. And the chocolate shake was so rich and satisfying. It was perfect. When she was done with the burger, she sat at the metal table in the little restaurant, and slowly drank her way to the bottom of the tall paper cup. 

When Crowley texted her to confirm that she would be there no later than half past six, because of Miran's bedtime, and she dragged herself away from the table and through the Underground and along the crowded sidewalks, and she opened the door of the shop at 6:27 PM. When she walked in to the shop, the whole family was playing hide and seek among the columns that ringed the atrium on the ground floor. They were giggling and in high spirits.

"So?", said Natalie. "How did it go?"

"Excellent," said Aziraphale. "She was very kind, just as you said. Despite my dear partner's efforts to wrong-foot her."

"They asked me to fill out a human anatomy quiz before they'd even see me," said Crowley, "With drawings of people's privates that I had to label. How is a person with my background expected to know what all the polite words are supposed to be?"

"Apparently," said Aziraphale, "The policy is that the staff use whichever words the patient specifies when discussing their more personal anatomy."

"Yes," said Natalie, "That is one of the things they do, to make their patients more comfortable."

"Well, if it hadn't been for my interference," said Aziraphale, "That poor woman would have been forced to use the most ridiculous and foul language."

"But it would have been funnier!", said Crowley. "And the whole point of having me pick the words is to make me more comfortable. I would have been more comfortable watching her trying to keep a straight face while saying--" He looked down to find a little hand tugging on his trouser leg. "Oh hello you!", he said. "Aren't you a sneaky child? I thought you were still hiding."

"You were planning to take advantage," said Aziraphale. He was laughing. "That policy is meant to help the staff avoid traumatizing humans who are suffering with dysphoria. It is not for the idle entertainment of incorrigible demons like yourself!"

"Miran wants Daddy to pick him up?" said Crowley. "Okay. Up." He accepted a toddler kiss on his cheek and flashed a strange smile at his partner. "Watch your words, Angel."

Aziraphale gave his partner an oddly serious nod, and then his face lit up again as he continued the bantering argument. 

"And yet," said Aziraphale, to Natalie, "This reprobate also required that a little child hold his hand the entire time that the specialist was examining him."

"You were able to let her touch you?"

"Eh," said Crowley, "A little. We worked up to it. She checked my blood pressure and my temperature."

"I'm impressed," said Natalie, "It sounds like things went very well."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Well, it was nice seeing you, Natalie, but Miran and I have to go. It's bedtime for this little guy. Miran, say goodnight to Papa." 

"Papa!", said Miran. "Fy!" 

Crowley pretended to fly Miran through the air towards Aziraphale. Except that Miran really had wings, and he fluttered them enthusiastically as he "flew" towards his papa. He and Aziraphale exchanged kisses. And then Crowley carried the toddler up the stairs of the shop. 

Aziraphale brought Natalie into a part of the shop that had a sofa and a chair. He offered her a cup of tea.

"It was an excellent appointment," said Aziraphale. "We have learned a great deal. We have a considerable amount of homework to do before we see her again, so we've elected to wait until next month for a second appointment. But she seems very competent. I have every expectation that Crowley will recover all of his body's former levels of functionality."

"Usually she sees people once or twice a week for a few months."

"Quite true," said Aziraphale, "And she did recommend that. She is very compassionate, and knowing that we are friends of yours, she was prepared to fit us in next Monday before her regular work day. Very generous. We are going to see her weekly, but starting next month. We do have special circumstances that she's not aware of."

"You have a lot of special circumstances," said Natalie. "Which specific ones are you referring to?"

"It's been a long four weeks," said Aziraphale. "And if we aren't trying for a baby, well, we can have a little more balance to our priorities."

"I'm afraid," said Natalie, "That I still don't--" 

Aziraphale sighed. Then sat up straighter and looked her in the eye. "Amy has assured us that it is going to be many many months of work before receptive intercourse will be possible for him. But we have options. So we are going to make sure to intersperse our work time with periods of enjoyment." 

And then Natalie understood. It must be good to be a shapeshifter. 

"She really was excellent with him," continued Aziraphale. "Whenever he started to shake or get withdrawn, she would help him calm down. I was taking note of her strategies. And once she became aware that Miran's touch soothes him so, she had him hold Miran in his lap whenever he needed help calming down. She was very sympathetic."

They talked for ten more minutes. Aziraphale had questions about how to adapt certain aspects of the "homework" so that it applied no matter what equipment Crowley was sporting. Natalie told him about the cult aspect that had been added to his cover story. And then there was the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, and suddenly a very excited Crowley was running into the book shop's seating area, holding Miran in his arms.

Crowley set Miran down on the rug in the center of the room, facing Aziraphale. 

"Okay," said Crowley. "Do it for Papa now. Show Papa 'peek-a-boo wings'. Go on and show him. Just like you did for Daddy."

"Puh . . . kah . . . boo!" said the toddler, and his wings completely disappeared. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and the wings were suddenly back. "Puh kah boo!", he squealed.

Aziraphale's jaw dropped open. He made a breathy exhalation. Then his face lit up with joy.

Aziraphale tumbled out of his chair onto his knees on the floor and swept his child into his arms and covered him with kisses. "Hurrah for Merry!", said the angel-man. "Hurrah for peek-a-boo wings!" Miran wriggled all six of his little limbs in delight. "Papa is so proud of Merry! Papa is so very proud of his clever little one!"

Aziraphale looked up at his mate. "I'm astonished," he said. 

Crowley smiled, inclined his head, spread his hands, and bowed.

Aziraphale pulled his child closer and then stood up, holding Miran in one arm, and threw out his other arm in a gesture of welcome. Crowley rushed forward and folded himself inside it. Aziraphale held the child against his chest and kissed his mate on the lips. "Well done Daddy!", he said. "Well done for teaching Miran! Give your daddy a kiss! We need to give Daddy so many kisses. This was a banner day for our Daddy, wasn't it?"

  
  



	4. How Crowley Got His Groove Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miran takes after each of his parents in different ways. Aziraphale pulls Crowley out of his shell. Natalie becomes a family friend.

It was two months after he'd started working with the pelvic pain specialist that Crowley finally invited Natalie to visit again. Amy had been in touch to say that he was making great progress and that there was no evidence of whatever original injury had started the pain cycle. She didn't mention any strangeness about Crowley, so the deception seemed to be working. But Natalie wanted to know how Crowley felt about things. And so she found herself sitting at the kitchen table in the little three-quarters Victorian/one-quarter modern flat, watching the angel people negotiate the afternoon's child care arrangement.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take him?", said Aziraphale. "It's no trouble at all." 

"Naw," said Crowley. He gestured at the kitchen floor where Miran was playing with some wooden blocks and a metal bowl and some wooden spoons. "He's happy."

And Aziraphale left for his afternoon's work in the book shop. 

Miran made contented little babbling sounds as he pushed the blocks around on the floor with a wooden spoon. 

Crowley sat down in a chair at the kitchen table, and served tea and simple buttery biscuits. He looked Natalie in the eye and spoke to her in complete sentences. He asked after her life, and she told him about Richard, her no-longer-so-new boyfriend, and about a little Renaissance Faire that she had attended with him. Crowley smiled indulgently. 

"It is ridiculous how much nostalgia you have for times you've never lived through," he said. And then, to Natalie's intense frustration, Crowley said nothing whatsoever about what his life had been like during the Renaissance. He just switched the topic. 

"We're going to put off trying for at least a year," he said. "Before I'm pregnant again, we want Miran weaned, or at least able to live off of just Aziraphale."

Hearing his name, Miran looked up at his father. When Crowley didn't look at him, he went back to playing. Now he was putting blocks into his bowl. Then he started stirring his bowl of blocks around with the wooden spoon, clanking the blocks around loudly. When he decided the blocks were stirred enough he took them out and fed them to his doll one by one.

"He's doing great with his wings," said Crowley. "He can put them away for two minutes at a time already. We think that by the time he is three years old, he might be completely wing trained. And then we could think about sending him to pre-school for a few hours a day. Maybe. Or maybe get a babysitter."

"That all sounds great," said Natalie. And she meant it. "It would certainly make the birth less complicated if Miran was comfortable being cared for by somebody other than you and Aziraphale."

Crowley bit his lip and nodded.

"Does that mean that its time to talk about birth control?", said Natalie. 

At that moment, Miran came over to the table, tugged on Crowley's sleeve, and held out a block. 

"Sake?" he said.

"Not right now sweetie," said Crowley. "Can you make me some stew? Miran is so good at making stew." Then he spoke to Natalie. "So I do have some questions about that, and I was hoping--"

"Sake!"

"Yes, Daddy can see that you have something for him," Crowley replied. He bent over his child. "S is for Snake. This is the S block. Good job. Daddy is not going to play with you on the floor right now. Later. Go back and make some more stew, now." He pointed at the metal bowl on the floor. Then he turned back to Natalie. "I don't know how these things work for humans, but--"

Miran looked at the bowl and pouted with pint sized disdain. Then he clawed at his father's leg until Crowley pulled him into his lap. Crowley pushed his hot tea towards the center of the table and placed a spoon on the table in front of his child. Miran picked up the spoon and pushed it around.

"This menstruation cycle thing, I think I understand it, but for me things seem to work a little differ--"

Miran reached toward the plate of biscuits. Crowley sighed and handed one of them to Miran. Then he went on.

"The humans seem to be able to tell if they are fertile, but--" Miran was holding the biscuit up to his father's face. "Num, num," Crowley said. "But I think that for me--"

"Num?" said Miran, holding the biscuit out to Natalie. 

"I already have a biscuit," said Natalie. "Why don't you eat it yourself?"

"Num," said Miran. He held the biscuit up to his lips. "Num."

"I could swear that the first time we actually-- No thank you sweetie." He gently pushed the little hand away from his face. "Daddy doesn't want the biscuit." 

"Num, num," said Miran. 

"You know what?", said Crowley, "I bet Papa is doing something fun in the shop."

"Ih," said Miran. 

"Yes," answered Crowley, "Miran and Papa can play with the till."

"Ih, ih, ih," replied Miran. He didn't even resist when Crowley took the uneaten biscuit from his hand and set it on the table. 

"Excuse me," said Crowley. And he carried his winged toddler down the hall and out the door of the flat. 

When he returned, Natalie spoke. 

"So do we need to talk about birth control?", asked Natalie.

"Good question," said Crowley. "Yes."

"Did you have a birth control strategy that you used in the past?"

Crowley's eyes widened. "Not as such," he said at last.

"So that means what exactly?"

"Didn't need to worry about it. Didn't have sex."

"Oh," said Natalie. "Let me explain how birth control works for humans, and then we can figure out how to adapt it for you."

After a detailed discussion of anatomy, Crowley arrived at his first solution. He decided to dissolve his own uterus, which was apparently possible for him to do. "I can make it again later," he said. 

"Amy might notice that," Natalie said. "What if you just sealed up your fallopian tubes?" 

"Maybe," he said, doubtfully. "But what if it found a way to happen again anyway?" 

"A pregnancy under those conditions wouldn't be possible for a human," said Natalie. "As long as your uterus is completely sealed off and separate, it should be safe. To the best of my knowledge."

Crowley nodded. "I could do that," he said. "Can't live in fear, right?" He took a deep breath and nodded again. "But I want you to check my pelvis today. Just in case."

"Okay," said Natalie. "How is that going to work? I know you've been making a lot of progress with Amy. I don't want to set you back."

Eventually, they decided that if he was dressed in tight fitting leggings and if Aziraphale and Miran were in the room, Natalie could touch him. They decided that the parlor was best, since Crowley had given birth in the bedroom, and they should avoid triggering him. Crowley left the flat and went downstairs to fetch his family. When they all arrived back, Crowley headed into the toilet and shut the door. The angel-man had barely enough time to start a round of a finger-counting game with Miran before Crowley reappeared wearing a skin-tight black t-shirt and black yoga pants and his seahorse pendant. 

Natalie's first thought was that Crowley had changed his clothes much faster than a human could have. Her second thought was that he had never brought any new clothes with him into the toilet. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because the dragon-angel suddenly looked chagrined. Aziraphale made a slight unhappy noise and then resumed playing with Miran. Natalie decided that it was best to focus on looking at Crowley's pelvis. 

The bones looked right. Natalie beckoned Crowley over to where she was sitting and measured his hips with her hands to be sure. Then she asked if she could have him on his back. He took a minute to collect himself and then he figured out how he could do it. Crowley ended up lying on his back on the floor of the parlor, with his bottom on the pink pig pillow, and Miran sitting on his chest while the two of them explored the seahorse necklace together. His breaths were coming a little fast at first, but he managed to slow them down by talking to Miran.

"That's the tail," said Crowley to his child. "Seahorses have tails."

"Ah," said Miran. 

"Gentle hands," said Crowley. And Natalie took that advice, just in case it had been meant for her, and she moved her hands more slowly over the mysterious magical clothes. Could clothes appear out of nowhere? Perhaps they were an illusion. They felt real. 

"Where is Daddy's nose?", Crowley said.

Could the clothes be a body part? Were they like wings, that could be materialized or vanished at will? 

"That's right!", said Crowley. "Now where is Miran's nose?" 

Natalie thought about clothes as her hands measured the distances between the landmark points of her patient's bones. Miran obviously wore real clothes. There was a sewing basket on a table in the corner of the room that was filled with little boy clothes that were being modified to accommodate his wings. Someday, Miran might have enough control of his wings to wear clothes without holes in the back. But would the day come when he could just create clothes for his body? 

"That's right," said Crowley. "You've got it. Who is so clever? Let's find Daddy's ear."

"Your proportions looks good to me," said Natalie. "I see no problems." Then she took her hands away. "All done." 

"Awww dah!", agreed Miran. He was still perched on top of his father's chest, and he turned around to face Natalie, forcing some mildly vexed sounds out of Crowley as his little feet and knees scrabbled around. Crowley snorted as the tip of a fluffy wing poked him in the nose. 

"That's right, Miran," Natalie said. "All done." Natalie threw her hands up in an enthusiastic gesture. "All done!"

Miran imitated her gesture, throwing his little hands over his head. "Awww dah!", he said. So Natalie threw her hands up in the air and said it again. And Miran repeated it, throwing his hands up. And then he burst into giggles. "Awww dah! Awww dah!", he said. 

Miran dismounted from his father, ran over to the shelves, picked up a small doll, carefully crawled up onto the sofa (with Aziraphale's help), and sat down on the edge with his legs hanging off and his whole body a-wiggle with obvious excitement. He caught Natalie's eye with his own hazel ones and then he very deliberately dropped the doll onto the floor, right next to where Natalie was kneeling. 

"Uh oh!", said Miran. 

He tilted his head. His little eyebrows knit themselves in pretended consternation. He flicked his eyes down at the doll on the floor and then cast them back at Natalie. His little lip made a tiny quivering little pout. His eyes were liquid with pleading. They shimmered with flecks of blue and green and gold.

Natalie's heart melted. He was irresistible. She picked up the doll and placed it back into his pudgy little hand. Miran's whole face burst into a sunny smile. A tidal wave of joy flooded Natalie's heart. She grinned at the little angel. Miran's smile broadened. He raised his eyebrows just a little bit. Then he held the doll out over the edge of the sofa and slowly opened his hand. The doll dropped to the floor.

"Uh oh!", said Miran. 

"You fool!", said Crowley to Natalie. "You'll never see the end of that game." 

====================================

Many months later, on the night that the angels finally trusted Natalie to babysit on her own, it was clearly Aziraphale who had chosen the date night activity. The old angel was practically vibrating with excitement as he answered the door of the shop to let Natalie in. He was dressed in a rather ordinary way, just a light blue cable-knit jumper and a pair of cream colored trousers, but the jumper matched his eyes. And his eyes were alight with joy.

Aziraphale led Natalie to the second floor of the shop and through the book shelves and into the hidden door to his flat. He took her coat and hung it in the coat closet, and then led her to the bedroom. A dim lamp in the reading area on the left side of the room cast just enough light that Natalie could make out a pile of grey fluff in the middle of a toddler bed wedged in the corner of the room on the far side of the curtained fourposter bed. The little toddler bed was a modern convertible type. It had been Miran's cot, and now it was a low bed with a back and sides made of tall white wooden slats. Miran was lying in the little bed, on his stomach, his enormous grey wings covering him so completely that the only non-wing parts of him that Natalie could make out were the top of his auburn curls, the bottoms of his pajama-clad feet, and a tiny little fist that emerged from the clouds of grey fluffy feathers. The fist was clinging to the ears of Miran's much-abused stuffed bunny. 

"He should sleep through the night for you," said Aziraphale. He led her back to the kitchen and shut the bedroom door. "You are welcome to any of the food in the ice box. There is a nice prune and custard tart on the top shelf that I think you'll like. The chicken cutlets, also on the top shelf, will be perfectly delicious cold, and I recommend them if you wish for more substantial food."

He pulled a bottle off of a wine rack on the counter. "You may open any of these bottles, but I would suggest that this particular Pinot Gris will pair acceptably with both the chicken and the tart." When she nodded, he placed the bottle into the icebox, right under the ice block. "Oh," he said, as he straightened up. "Much as I am loathe to condemn you to a cold supper, I'm afraid I must ask that you refrain from using the stove while we are away."

"No problem," said Natalie. "Cold supper sounds great." 

She was no fool. She had deliberately skipped her own supper tonight so that she would have room for whatever indulgent food the angel wanted to share with her. She had by now shared a dozen meals with him, and she was starting to get spoiled. 

"Excellent," Aziraphale replied. "The Pinot should reach the ideal temperature in twenty minutes." He carefully placed a bottle opener and an entire place setting on the kitchen table. Then he took her into the parlor and gave her a hand-written note on a piece of paper.

"Now, in case of emergency, here is the name and telephone number of the pub that we will be visiting. Just six blocks away, as you can see. Crowley will be carrying his mobile telephone in his pocket, and the number is just there. So, if you need us, we can be back in a jiffy. And you are welcome to enjoy the use of the television."

He picked up a remote, pointed it at the plasma television, and then shook his head in frustration and picked up the next remote, and then the next. 

"I can't imagine a more perfect evening," said Natalie. "You've taken care of everything."

"Ah," said Aziraphale, as he finally got the screen to turn on, "I should mention that I've done a little something else. Miran won't wake. So no worries about that at all."

"Is that safe?", said Natalie.

"Absolutely," replied the angel-man, "I don't like to do it too often, but tonight is special." He pressed a few buttons on one of the remotes. It didn't seem to have any effect on the telly.

"What are you doing tonight?", asked Natalie. 

"Well," said the angel-man. "For the past three months, I have been in weekly attendance at a gay dads meeting up group. I very much want to introduce Crowley to these gentlemen. He could stand to make some friends of his own. And tonight, absolutely everyone will be there at the pub. We are having a keenly anticipated trivia competition."

Crowley snorted as he entered the parlor. "Aziraphale only wants me along tonight so I can be his witness as he wipes the floor with these poor wretches."

The dragon-angel wore low-rise tight fitting blue jeans with a black snake skin belt. They clung to his hips, which were a bit wide and low for a man's hips. His pointy toed shoes had the same snakeskin pattern as his belt. He wore an incredibly tight black t-shirt which clung to every curve of the muscles of his chest and abdomen. It said "Bottoms Up," in white letters. His shock of red hair was spiked and artfully messy, and he was wearing mascara and black eyeliner. He wasn't wearing his seahorse necklace. It was the first time Natalie had seen him without it in months. 

"Gotta keep the color scheme simple," said Crowley, in answer to Natalie's unspoken thought. Then he ran his hands over the curves of his hips and glanced up at Aziraphale. A grimace flickered across the dragon-angel's lips. He sighed and then looked down at the carpet. 

Aziraphale set down the three remote controls that he had been ineffectually juggling. He took his partner's hands into his own, then, still holding them, he stepped back and slowly looked the dragon-angel over from head to toe. He tsk'd in mock disapproval. Then he huffed. "Must you always dress to tempt?" he said. "This is a mutual support group for fathers, not a night club."

Crowley gave a smile that managed to be both shy and wicked at the same time. 

Aziraphale looked his mate over again, and this time his eyes lingered on the too tight T-shirt. He traced the contours of Crowley's chest with his eyes, and his mouth silently formed the words "bottoms up". He tilted his head. "Really, darling?", he said. "Is that necessary?"

" 'S my drinking shirt," replied Crowley. "Perfect for a night at the pub." 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes eloquently. Then he turned to Natalie. "As I was about to say, you'll find that we have a wide range of programming available through streaming television services." 

"Let me give her the tour," Crowley said. And he picked up the remotes, and showed Natalie how to navigate through the menus. 

When the technology tour was done and Aziraphale and Crowley were putting on their jackets, Natalie asked: "What is the topic for tonight's exciting trivia night?"

"Musicals!" said Aziraphale triumphantly. "And when my team wins, and we will, then we can count ourselves as men among men. There is no greater test than to pit ourselves against the gay men of London. But I'm the best of them. For the past one hundred and ten years I have maintained season tickets to every major theatre in the West End. There is no English language musical that I am not an expert on."

The angel-man swept out the door of the flat with his head held high. 

"As long," whispered Crowley, "As the musical isn't one that came out in the last thirteen years. Or isn't one of the ones he despises. I'm going to need to choose our team-mates carefully to fill in the gaps in his knowledge. If he loses, I will never hear the end of it."

Natalie was no fool, so as soon Crowley closed the door of the flat, she made her way straight to the kitchen and pulled out the two boxes of food and the wine from the ice box. Just in case Aziraphale's magical kid-sleeping charm should happen to fail, she did not want to miss out on this meal.

The chicken cutlets turned out to have a sort of complex flavor that tasted sweet and lemony-tart. The chicken was decorated with parsley and tiny little green sour-tart fruits that were surprisingly good. There was a garlicky sauce and some steamed vegetables too. It was very good, and the wine was magnificent. Natalie let herself enjoy a full glass with dinner and then a few sips from a second glass with the prune and custard tart. Then she wiped down the table and did the dishes. She turned out the light in the kitchen, opened the bedroom door to peek in at the sleeping angel-child, and then closed the bedroom door again. 

She sat down in the parlor and nursed her excellent wine and tried out some shows that she couldn't get at home. She had brought some hand sewing to do, but she didn't even bother with it in the end. It was a mellow evening. Two and a half hours of television watching flew by and then the door of the flat opened and Aziraphale danced in. 

"Good night?", Natalie asked. 

Aziraphale waved a pair of tickets in the air. "A triumph for team Bennett!", he said. "Not a single question missed. This victory makes having endured the entire first act of _Behind the Iro_ n _Mask_ very nearly seem worth it."

Crowley looked more subdued but his eyes were shining. 

"Good night for you?", said Natalie. 

"Yep," the dragon-angel said. "Thank you for babysitting." He shook her hand and then wandered off toward the bedroom. 

Aziraphale walked Natalie downstairs and through the shop. At the door, he shook her hand in thanks. "Tonight's experiment was a complete success," he said. "Despite his best efforts at conversational sabotage, my stubborn mate has actually met some people he likes. One of them is a man who carried his own baby. And I do believe that Crowley has agreed to meet this fellow at the playground on Saturday morning."

=======================================

On the first night that Richard was allowed to come with Natalie to babysit, Aziraphale happened to be dressed in Victorian clothes. He answered the door of the shop wearing grey trousers, a white shirt with layers of decorative pleats covering the chest, a light blue waistcoat, and a blue bowtie. He had cream colored leather shoes. They were dazzlingly reflective. 

"Nice to see you again Richard," he said. "My own partner is still getting ready. I'll show you both upstairs."

"Is there a steampunk event tonight?", asked Richard. As per her agreement with them, Natalie hadn't told her boyfriend about the angels' true identity. Poor Richard was thinking that Aziraphale was a human being who happened to share one of his hobbies. 

"I'm afraid I'm not really sure if it is a 'punk' event," said Aziraphale. "Crowley has chosen the club."

Richard blinked in confusion and then looked to Natalie for help. Natalie shrugged. What could she do, really? These sorts of awkward moments were bound to happen in any friendship with a thousand year old person who was pretending to be human. 

"Well, that's a great costume," said Richard. 

He was right, of course. Natalie cast a critical eye over Aziraphale's outfit, and found every detail to be correct for the mid-Victorian era, from the cut of his trousers and waistcoat to the style of the bowtie. Grey seemed an odd color for a Victorian who was going out at night, but Aziraphale obviously felt free to ignore the normal sartorial rules. And he looked good in grey and blue. Natalie wondered whether he had managed to preserve these clothes for almost two hundred years, if he had pulled them through time, or if Aziraphale's sewing skills were as unnaturally well developed as his reading skills.

There was no way to know, and Natalie couldn't ask with Richard there. And so, as she and her boyfriend followed the oblivious angel up the staircase, Natalie contented herself with admiring the fabric and trying to memorize the way the Victorian trousers were pieced together. Now that she had a man to make costumes for, she was trying to improve her skill at making trousers. 

Aziraphale showed them both into the flat. He showed them the kitchen and graciously tolerated Richard's ardent admiration of the stove and the icebox. Natalie was a little saddened that Aziraphale's patient explanation of the Victorian kitchen technology meant that he had no time to give his normal loving description of the gourmet dinner that he had left in the icebox for them. 

When Aziraphale opened the bedroom door so that they could peek in at Miran, Richard gasped out loud at the sight of the intricately carved, upholstered, curtained, four-poster, Victorian bed upon which Aziraphale had neatly laid out a grey tailcoat, gloves, and a grey stovepipe hat. 

Natalie put her finger to her lips. "Don't wake the kid," she hissed. "Or we'll have to eat in shifts." 

They went to the parlor, and Aziraphale showed Natalie the dinosaur costume he was making for Miran's fourth Halloween, and then he ducked back into the bedroom to get his coat. 

Crowley slunk across the hall and into the parlor. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His outfit was about as far from a Victorian tailcoat as it was possible to be. It wasn't drag, exactly. His clothes managed to emphasize both his masculine and feminine aspects and subvert any attempts to categorize his body. Natalie and Richard both whistled as he entered. He walked into the center of the room and twirled around. 

Crowley was wearing a knee length black velvet skirt that clung to his hips and then flared out dramatically. He had fishnet stockings and feminine looking black ankle high boots with high heels and lace trim. Three centimeters of fishnet emerged from the top of the velvet skirt and drew attention to his lean and muscled abdomen. He had a black vest made of velvet that hung open and completed the framing of his abdomen. His slim chest was bound with a tight band of fabric that was a nude color and covered with black embroidery. It almost looked as if his chest were naked and tattooed with black line drawings of snakes. His arms and shoulders were bare, the sleeveless vest framing their muscles to great advantage. His red hair was spiky and he wore make up: mascara, dark eyeliner, blue eye shadow and a hint of blush that made his cheekbones seem even higher. 

"Wow," said Natalie. "You look great!" 

"Might steal me some babies tonight," said Crowley with a wicked grin. 

Aziraphale bustled in, wearing his grey tailcoat, with his gloves and top hat in hand. "No one there will actually be underage," he said. 

Crowley smirked. "Of course not, sweetheart," he said.

It was all relative, of course. If the angels were indeed thousands of years old, Natalie thought, then wouldn't that make every human under age? Crowley must have overheard that thought, because he caught her eye and winked. That was when Natalie noticed that the blue of Crowley's eye shadow was the exact same shade as his partner's blue vest. Even when he was pretending to be contrary, Crowley was always in orbit around Aziraphale. 

After the angels left, Richard asked Natalie about them. It was a little tricky to have friends who were also clients. Harder still that those friends were thousand year old occult entities living in hiding from their own frighteningly intolerant people. Natalie had to err on the side of saying little, but since Richard already knew that Natalie had delivered Miran, he read between the lines and deduced that they were planning to try for another one and were expecting her to be their midwife. 

"I can tell," he said. "They had boxes of baby clothes in the bedroom that were organized by size. People only do that when they are planning to have another one."

"I can't comment on that," she said. 

"Hah!", he said. 

"You shouldn't snoop," she said. 

"I don't. I merely observed that which was within my line of sight as we walked through the flat. I can't help that I notice things. That's what you like about me. I notice things."

It was a relatively warm night for September and the ceviche that Aziraphale had left for them was particularly refreshing to eat cold. Natalie had never had acid cured fish before, and it took a few tries for her to get used to the taste, but Richard rhapsodized over it. "I've never had better," he said.

They watched a few sci-fi shows, and Richard magnanimously refrained from ruining the plots by guessing the twists ahead of time. The hours went by pleasantly. Then all of a sudden, at half-past eleven, Richard grabbed the remote and muted the television. He held up one finger. 

Natalie heard it too. There was a creaking sound coming from outside the flat. Richard turned out the lights and carefully crept to the door of the flat. He opened it silently and listened. A muffled crashing sound came from the ground floor of the darkened shop. And then some scrapes and squeaks. Someone was moving around in the shop. 

Natalie pulled out her mobile and brought up Crowley's phone number. Her thumb hovered over the button. Normally she would call the police, but, of course, if the intruders were avenging angels, only Crowley and Aziraphale could hope to hold them off. 

Richard only expected human intruders, and he wasn't as intimidated. He had already pulled out his own mobile and quietly stepped out the door of the flat. Keeping to the shadows, he stepped past the book shelves and carefully circled around the atrium on the upper floor. Natalie heard his footsteps pause. Then he hurried back to her and ushered her back into the flat. 

"Is someone there?", said Natalie, "Prowlers?"

Richard smiled and shook his head. "Yes to the first question. No to the second."

"Don't mess with me," said Natalie. "Am I calling the police or not?"

"Not," said Richard. "But I stand by what I said earlier. Your friends are absolutely going to have another baby."


	5. Miran Explains Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy being pregnant when nobody knows about it. Sometimes, though, its hard to have to explain it to strangers. Fortunately, Miran is good at explaining things.

Richard had been completely right. It was one of his annoying traits. And when Crowley had finally given Natalie permission to share the news of the pregnancy with Richard, the nosy bastard did a quick mental calculation, and spent the rest of the day smirking. 

Natalie didn't violate her patient's privacy to correct Richard, but it was actually more likely that the dragon-angel had already been pregnant on the night that Richard and Natalie had babysat, than that he became so. Natalie's own calculation was that the dragon-angel was about three days pregnant that night. It wasn't that uncommon for the first days of a pregnancy to be accompanied by some strong primal urges. 

Actually, 'primal' might not be exactly the right word to apply to a non-primate dragon-angel person. Still, Crowley did seem to follow many normal human patterns. At the weeks went by, his pregnancy proceeded perfectly normally. He gained weight steadily. The baby usually didn't bother having a heartbeat, but ultrasound measurements showed their growth to be perfectly normal. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had thrice visited the private clinic that would take them in case of emergency, and they'd charmed the entire staff. Which was good. It almost made up for the bizarre spectacle of watching competent obstetricians repeatedly fail to notice, not only that the baby didn't have a heartbeat but that they had two enormous wings sticking out of their back. 

Aziraphale assured Natalie that her calming presence made the necessary illusions easier for him to pull off. "And your tips about normal human biology have proved invaluable," he said. "I've been able to focus my interventions where they are most needed." And thus, over the course of three carefully scripted visits, the old angel convinced the private hospital that for Crowley's C-section, a minimal surgical team consisting of pre-selected people was the best plan. Also, he convinced them that Crowley's eye condition wasn't worth thinking about, and that any scales or extra limbs they might happen to spot on him would be perfectly expected and ordinary. 

Still, after the last visit was done, Natalie was glad. Now that the emergency birth plan was completely settled, she could finally relax a bit. All the angelic pregnancy strangeness from here on out would be confined to her life, and that felt a little less eerie. Thanks to a miraculously well-timed donation that her clinic had just received, Natalie had been able to purchase, among other things, three top-of-the-line portable ultrasound machines. This meant that she wouldn't even have to bring Crowley into her own clinic to monitor him. 

Not that he needed much monitoring. He was nearly six months along, his health was perfect, and Natalie had every expectation that her favorite inhuman client would end up having the intimate home birth that he desired. She started to visit the angel family at their book shop home every two weeks. Being no fool, she always made sure that Crowley's appointments were just before lunch or at the end of the day. And she always let herself be invited to stay for a meal. 

Natalie liked the angels, not only because they were generous, but because they were fascinating and unpredictable. They had, in their cautious way, accepted her as a friend. And she, for her part, was happy to exchange babysitting and extra attentive prenatal care for extravagant meals, theatre tickets, occasional hints about how daily life had been in previous centuries, and the privilege of getting a glimpse into the personal lives of aliens. 

One strange thing about the angels was that the rules for how their bodies worked always seemed to be changing. Midway through the pregnancy Crowley suddenly took to eating a bite or two out of each of the three sumptuous meals that his mate set in front of him each day. It was nowhere near enough to sustain a human, but Aziraphale was thrilled. 

"Better than last time!", he declared. 

Meanwhile, Miran was refusing to even sit at the table to watch his parents eat. And, in the interest of peace in the household, Aziraphale had surrendered the point. After three years of vainly attempting to get Miran interested in every possible type of cuisine, followed by four months of daily meal-time arguments, Aziraphale had finally allowed himself to admit that his first born would probably never share one of his greatest interests. 

"But all of this eating that Crowley is doing is an excellent sign," he told Natalie, "That our second child will enjoy food as I do." 

Aziraphale pivoted impressively quickly, and now his cultural education efforts were focused on instilling a love of musical theatre in his son. It was early days, but this new campaign actually did seem to be working. The little angel-boy had learned to recognize dozens of his papa's favorite musicals and he could even sing some of the songs. 

One afternoon in the book shop, Crowley and Miran treated Natalie and Aziraphale to a mini-performance of a song from a show called _Into the Woods._ In the song, the wily Big Bad Wolf tempts Little Red Riding Hood to stray from the safe path that her mother told her to follow. Even pregnant, Crowley made an uncannily persuasive evil wolf, and Miran, at age four, already knew how to use his little doe eyes to great effect as he played the part of the naive little girl. He lisped his way through his parts of the song with great dramatic enthusiasm, and he must have gotten most of the song right because Aziraphale was beaming. 

==========================================

Like all pregnant people, Crowley was impaired. He walked a little slower. He slept a lot more. But for him there were other limits too, occult limits. Crowley was vague about what they were. "There are little things," he said to Natalie. "Little things that I normally do without even noticing, and they make my life easier." Apparently, when he had been pregnant with Miran, Crowley had just hidden on the sofa in the bookshop and slept all day, every day. But now, as he said, "Miran wants me to come out with him, and I want to be with him, but it's hard. I just can't keep him safe like I could before."

As dramatic as they felt to Crowley, all the changes that happened in his body and in his magic were absolutely invisible to the people he lived among. For the first five months, nobody that Crowley interacted with on a daily basis ever suspected that he was pregnant. The fact that a slim man could gain ten kilos and develop an apparent beer belly in only five months without anyone saying a word was an excellent example of everyday sexism. Even if he had had the energy to use his glamours, Crowley wouldn't have needed them to hide his pregnancy. Society at large had already made male bodies magically resistant to scrutiny. 

Having an invisible pregnancy wasn't altogether easy. The life of a pregnant man was far more circumscribed than that of a pregnant woman. Aziraphale described the problem thus: "The downside of male privilege," he said, "Is that there is no room for a male to have any physical weakness. Crowley can't get a seat anywhere. He used to adore taking Miran around the city on the bus or the tube, but now that Miran is too big for his lap, he can't take the chance of being caught out at rush hour. People will give up a seat for a child, but not for a man." 

Crowley had predicted that no one would notice his pregnancy, and he had been right. But he actively helped the deception along. All winter, whenever he ventured out of doors, he wore a heavy anorak jacket to conceal his belly. Even in relatively friendly places, he was ambivalent about telling people, and it was Aziraphale who finally insisted that Miran be allowed to tell his friends at their Soho preschool. "The owners of the school are gay," the angel-man said, "And Miran's teachers can help him sort out his feelings about having a new baby join his family." 

As Crowley's third trimester approached, a new problem emerged. While strangers on the street would probably assume he had a beer belly, the day to day acquaintances who he interacted with more regularly were starting to notice Crowley's pregnancy. Crowley had a quick temper and the hormone roller-coaster of pregnancy made his emotions even more unpredictable than usual. When pressed, Aziraphale would claim that he was more afraid of what Crowley might do or say to a rude person than he was of Crowley himself feeling harassed. But somewhere around 26 weeks there was a particularly unpleasant public encounter which Aziraphale referred to as 'the incident'. Natalie learned of it when Miran debuted some colorful new vocabulary words in her presence. Aziraphale refused to speak about what had happened, but thereafter he insisted on accompanying his mate and child every time they set foot outside of the shop. 

March came, Crowley was loathe to discard the knee-length coat that he had been using all winter. It was too hot to wear it for even short walks, so he stopped going along when Aziraphale took Miran on the four block walk to and from his afternoon preschool. (Doing half-days avoided any questions about why Miran didn't eat or use the loo.) And, even more sadly, Crowley stopped taking Miran to his twice weekly morning dance classes. 

Before the pregnancy, Crowley had been the one who took Miran to all his dance lessons. But the dance studio was not in the protected bubble of Soho. It was too far to walk and the dragon-angel was loathe to drive his antique car in London without strong magical protection to keep it from getting scratched or towed. So the only option was public transportation. And, by the time March came, being on a crowded underground train while wearing a heavy coat was just too much for Crowley to handle. 

It was near the end of March when Aziraphale called Natalie and asked for a favor. He wanted to travel to Spain for the auction of an estate, and he wondered if Natalie could sit with Crowley during Miran's ballet class and then drive them home.

"It sounds ridiculous, I know," said the angel-man, "But I don't like them to be out alone. And this is the week they assign all the parts for the Spring show. Miran has worked so hard this year that we want to give him the best possible chance."

It was all rather precious to imagine that missing a single class would matter to a preschooler. If Miran wasn't such a ridiculously charming child, it would have been easy to hate him for how spoiled he was. But, then again, Natalie couldn't bring herself to say no to Aziraphale any more than she could say no to Miran. Natalie chanced to have that particular morning free, and so she blocked out the time in her schedule and agreed to meet Crowley at the dance studio at the start of Miran's class. She was completely skeptical of the idea that a four year old's dance career mattered all that much, but she thought it would be nice to get a chance to see how Crowley and Miran got around out in the world. 

"Excellent!", Aziraphale had said, "I'll drop them both off outside the studio at ten o'clock and then I'll pop on over to the auction." 

And so, at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning on the very last day of March, Natalie found herself in a room full of young children and their mothers, wondering how exactly Aziraphale was planning to "pop on over" to Spain for the day. Somehow, she doubted that he was going to be taking a flight from Heathrow. 

The dance school was on the second and third floors of a commercial building. The second floor waiting area was just a little rectangular room lined with folding chairs on two walls. One of the long walls had a door that must lead to the dance studio and a large window that might let you see into the dance studio except that, on the other side, it was completely covered by a curtain. 

The room itself was a seething mass of people, and, even though the weather outside was appropriately chilly and rainy, it being a mere week after the official start of Spring, the room itself was stiflingly hot. The row of ancient windows, high up on the walls, had been cracked open to provide some air circulation. Along the two edges of the room that had chairs, women were sitting with babies and toddlers in their laps. Some of the chairs were occupied by preschool girls whose mothers were wrestling them into pink leotards and little pink ballet shoes. On the floor, eight or so young children, mostly boys, writhed around, wrestling or crashing little wooden trains together. 

Natalie sidled in to the room, careful not to step on any children, and made for the wall that had the useless glass window. "Excuse me," she said to a pink haired woman who was stuffing a pair of damp little socks into her purse, "Is this the right studio for preschool ballet Level 2?"

"Yes," said the woman. "Although I'm afraid preview day was last week. You won't be able to watch the children today. Are you somebody's grandmother?"

"I've got a friend with a little boy in the class."

"You're friends with Miran's dads," she said. 

"I guess everyone knows them," said Natalie.

And at that moment, a little child in butterfly wellies, a light blue mackintosh, a black leotard and a silvery skirt came bursting through the door of the waiting area. 

"Hi Nat Lee!", Miran cried. He pushed his way through the mass of floor children, leaving a trail of little wet footprints. He gave her a hug and gifted her with a sunny smile. 

"Is your daddy here?", said Natalie. 

"Daddy is in the lift taking his time, but we are early so we _Really_ don't need to worry about it," he said, all in one breath. 

The door of the waiting room opened. There was a little huff of effortful breathing and then: "Miran!", called Crowley's voice. "Wellies belong in the shoe rack!"

Miran sat down on the floor at Natalie's feet and took off his wellies, scattering raindrops on all the nearby children. Then he stood up and carried his butterfly wellies over to the enormous pile of coats and little kid footwear. He put his wellies in the footwear portion of the pile and then shucked his light blue mackintosh and tossed it, inside out, onto the colorful mass of children's coats. 

Miran pushed his way towards the center of the floor and sat down and grabbed a few train cars and started running them along a wooden track. Meanwhile, Crowley had tottered into the room, holding a pair of little black ballet slippers in his hands. He was wearing his knee-length winter coat. It was damp. Crowley waved at Natalie and then slumped against a section of wall next to the door. Natalie made her way over to his part of the room. There was just enough space for her to lean on the wall next to him. But every time the door opened, she could feel the air move right beside her. 

"You should be sitting," said Natalie. 

"Eh," said Crowley "Not a big deal. Class changes over in five minutes or so. I'll get a seat then."

"You could ask someone to give you a seat," said Natalie. "I'm sure they would." She gestured with her chin over to the middle of the long wall of the room where a very pregnant woman was holding court. 

Crowley shook his head. 

"Aren't you hot?", she asked. 

"You should have come last week," Crowley said. "You would have been able to watch him." 

Next to them, the door swung open, and a cloud of cool air entered the room as two more families pushed their way in. 

"Are you sure?", whispered Natalie. "You could at least wait outside in the hall where it's less crowded. I can watch Miran."

"Don't make a thing out of it," said Crowley.

More people were entering the room. Since there were no more chairs to put children on for changing, the mothers were changing their standing up children, pulling wellies and mackintoshes off of squirming little girls and slipping skirts over leotards while other children, mostly boys, dove into the writhing mass of floor-children and tried to claim toys. The kids on the floor were making lots of crashing noises and engine noises, and, over the top of it all, the heavily pregnant woman was loudly leading the only coherent adult conversation in the room. 

"I'm glad it's another girl," she was saying. "That way all three of them can do the same activities. I don't need to be running around to boy sport classes on top of all the dance and gymnastics."

"Having all girls is nice," agreed another mother. "I honestly like the girl activities better. I'm not an outdoorsy person at all. Can you imagine me trying to do scouts?"

"I wish my three all did the same activities," said a third mother. "But the boys just love their football and Gracie needs her dance."

"Mum," said a little girl whose name seemed to be Gracie. She looked to be a bit older than Miran. "Are you being sexist again?"

The group of women burst into giggles. 

"Boys and girls can do all the same things," said Gracie. "Grandma says."

"That's the ideal, Sugar-plum," said Gracie's mum. "But real life is a little more complicated."

"Yes," said the loud pregnant woman, "There are some things only us girls can do." She ran a hand over her belly.

"But grandma says."

"Miss Tiffany means that only mummies grow babies in their tummies," said Gracie's mum.

Miran stopped playing with his trains and looked up at the women. He tilted his head to the side. Then he opened his mouth. 

"Daddies can have a baby too," said Miran. His little voice was as clear as a bell. 

Two meters away, separated from his child by an obstacle course of toddlers and toys, Crowley's head lifted up. His mouth opened, and a little sound came out of it, like a cross between a squeak and a sigh. Natalie was probably the only one who heard it. The noise of the children playing on the floor was louder by far. 

The next moments unfolded all too quickly. 

"Oh," said Gracie's mum. "That's right." She smiled down indulgently at Miran. "You have two daddies, don't you, Miran?"

Miran nodded and stood up and pointed at his father.

"My Daddy has a tummy baby," said Miran. 

He weaved his way across the minefield of toys and laid his hands on Crowley's round belly. "In here," he said. "You can feel kicking, but gentle touches only."

The women sitting in the far corner of the room looked up from their mobiles. The women who were juggling armfuls of wellies and coats by the door went silent. They all stared at Miran and Crowley. The collection of mostly boy children continued to roll around on the floor wrestling and clattering their little trains on the wooden tracks. 

Miran looked around at the slack-jawed adults. He seemed pleased by all the attention. He clasped one hand over his own little belly and raised one finger on the other hand high in the air and held forth like a professor.

"Our baby is definitely a boy because our family is always boys," he said. "But maybe they will be a dinosaur and a boy. In Summer. But babies can't go swimming with you because they are too little." 

Miran looked around at all the stunned grown ups, nodded in satisfaction, and then glanced up at his father. Crowley gave his child a strained smile. Then the angel-dad gave a faint little wave to everyone in the room, flashed all of his teeth in a determined smile and spoke. 

"All true," said Crowley. "He's right. Brand new babies are terrible swimmers."

Three very long seconds passed. Then there was the sound of a door latch and a rush of air and fifteen toddlers in pink tulle skirts erupted out of the dance studio and filled the waiting area with their chirping voices.

"Thank you Tiny Toes, see you next week!", said the teacher. "Time for Preschool Ballet Level 2!" 

Nine preschooler girls, all dressed in pink leotards and wearing pink skirts, rushed towards the studio door. Miran grabbed his little black slippers from his father's limp hand and fluttered back through the room to join the crush of children all simultaneously trying to squeeze past the teacher and though the door of the studio. 

"Here are my preschool ballet friends!", said the teacher. "Okay, lets all find our stars so we can do attendance." 

The preschoolers' voices faded into the studio. Then the room was filled with a lot of high pitched toddler squeals and low mother rumbles as the mothers of the entire toddler class exchanged ballet slippers for wellies. As the crowd churned towards the door, Crowley sidled along the wall and sunk into an empty seat at the very end of a row of folding chairs. Natalie took the chair next to him and pulled out her phone and found some photos of her recent vacation and pretended that there was nothing she'd rather do than show them to Crowley. 

For a while, the room was silent except Natalie's descriptions of the palaces in Porto and the sound of toddlers crashing cars together on the floor. The silence stretched on through vacation picture after vacation picture. Then the woman with the bright pink hair walked across the room and crouched down in front of Crowley. "I would have given you my seat," she said. "You should never have had to stand." 

He looked up at her. He sucked in his lips and he made a little nod. "Thanksss," he said. He nodded again. Then he took a deep breath. "Your daughter, um, Lily, right?" 

"That's right. I'm Lily's mum. I'm Ruth," she said. "I know it's kind of a germ factory, so maybe you'd want to avoid it, but maybe next week after class we could take the kids to the little indoor playground up the street?", she said. "It's only two blocks away. If its not too far for you to walk?"

Crowley nodded. "Yep," he said. Then he turned his face toward the wall and slipped his fingers under his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He took another deep breath and turned back to Ruth. "That would be--," he said. "Yeah. Miran would love that. They have the little car roller, um-- track, thing."

"Can't get Lily off of the car roller coaster," said the pink haired woman. "It's a date then." And she grabbed a folding chair and set it down near him. "Is this okay?", she asked. And he nodded. 

Natalie and Ruth together managed to persuade Crowley to take off his heavy coat. The women on the other side of the room pretended not to stare at Crowley's belly as they very pointedly chatted about yoga class and summer camps. After a few minutes, Gracie's mother crossed the room and sat down next to Natalie and asked when the baby was due. Then she pulled her chair around a bit closer. 

The rest of the forty minute ballet class was a relatively quiet affair. The four of them, the three human women and the angel pretending to be a man, talked about babies and pregnancy and how to help big siblings get ready for a new baby. And Crowley's shoulders slowly made their way down to a relaxed position. By the end of the class, he had even resumed using words that had 's' sounds in them. 

And then, just as the studio door opened and the preschoolers were rushing out of the studio, another woman crossed the room, grabbed a little pink mackintosh and wellies and, as she passed in front of Crowley's little group of defenders, she whispered, all in a rush of words. "Um, I just wanted to let you know that I think it's really brave, what you're doing. You're really good with Miran and I think it's great that you're expanding your family." Then she disappeared into the crowd of preschoolers.

Miran flitted through the crowd, his little silver skirt fluttering about him, until he reached his father. "Teacher wants you," he said.

Crowley rubbed his cheek with his hand. His fingers went up under his glasses and moved them up. He huffed. He ran his hand through his hair. He adjusted his sunglasses. He pushed himself up to standing, and he waddle-walked through the thinning crowd of little and big humans. The teacher was waiting at the door of the studio and she waved him in but left the door open. 

The room emptied out. Miran showed Natalie the right bins to put toys away in, and Natalie and Ruth the pink haired woman and her daughter Lily tidied everything away. Lily and Ruth were just putting on their rain gear when Crowley came out of the dance studio. 

"Miran," Crowley said, "Miss Amanda wants to show you a new routine today. Would you like that?"

Miran nodded and ran back into the studio.

"All good," Crowley said to Natalie and Ruth. "She just wanted to offer him a special spot in the Spring show. It means another rehearsal every Sunday."

"Tell him we said congratulations," said Ruth. And she and her daughter waved goodbye and headed for the lifts.

The room was empty except for Natalie and Crowley. Crowley waddled back over to a chair where he could see through the open door of the studio. Natalie sat down next to him and peered in and watched the teacher run through some steps with Miran. 

"He must be good for his age," she said.

"Yes," whispered Crowley. He was smiling. "Doesn't hurt that he's a boy. They always need boys. Also, last year, when his whole class had a costume problem, Aziraphale spent 20 hours fixing everything for them. They want to stay on the good side of any parent who can sew."

"Makes sense," said Natalie. "So Miran will do two dances for the show?"

"Three," said Crowley. "Three costumes, probably three sets of shoes, and extra rehearsals on Sunday afternoons for the next ten weeks. Aziraphale is going to be thrilled. He has become such a dance mom."

"What about you?", said Natalie. "Are you proud of him?"

"Yeah," said Crowley. "But the point is that he loves performing. He likes everyone to be watching him. He'll have a blast. No point in doing it if you don't like it."

"When is this show, exactly?", said Natalie. "Is it in June?"

"Yep," said Crowley, "The eighteenth." 

"The eighteenth of June?", said Natalie. 

"Perfect, isn't it?", said Crowley. "That's three whole days before the baby is even due."


	6. Dancing Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miran's dance recital seems to go well. Until it doesn't.
> 
> Secrets are revealed. Miran and his family don't quite fit the normal categories, and human people have to decide whether that is okay or not.

Miran's dance recital did end up impacting Tara's birth, but it wasn't in the way Natalie had expected or prepared for. The angels' lives were always a bit more complicated than ordinary human lives. 

====================================

One week before Crowley's due date, Natalie visited the angels' flat to do a check up. There wasn't much to check physically. Crowley was always in perfect health. He didn't produce enough urine to test or have a blood pressure worth measuring and the baby only irregularly bothered to have a heartbeat. Natalie looked over her patient as he lay on his own bed. She ran a tape measure over his belly, took another look inside with the portable ultrasound machine, and then she was out of things to do. 

"Baby is head down and weighs about 4000 grams," said Natalie, as she put her equipment away. The baby was already above the average birth weight. But Miran had also been a large baby. He had been over 4400 grams. And siblings tended to have similar birth weights. Natalie didn't say that the baby was huge, she said:

"Baby really could arrive any day now." 

And Crowley, who could read her mind, closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath, the very kind that his pelvic floor therapist had taught him to take. 

"Excellent," said Aziraphale. "I'll put the tea on." 

Aziraphale opened the bedroom door that led to the kitchen. Miran, who had been waiting just outside the door, scooted past him and tumbled on top of the bed next to his father. 

"Still Tummy Baby," said Miran. He rubbed the great belly. 

"Real baby is coming very soon, Miran," said Crowley. 

"Can Real Baby come to my recital?"

"Brand new babies are too small to go to recitals," said Crowley

Miran's face dropped in disappointment. "But he wants to come. He likes to watch me dance."

"I think that he is going to watch from inside daddy's belly," said Crowley.

"Is the recital this Saturday?", asked Natalie. 

Miran nodded. Then he rolled off the bed and found an empty piece of floor between his parent's bed and the new dinosaur bed that was crammed in the corner of the room. Miran hummed a fragment of a tune and did a bunch of precise moves that culminated in a spin and a dramatic pose. Then he held his hands in the air like a matador and lifted his chin and waited. Natalie applauded obediently, and Miran bowed. 

Aziraphale leaned into the doorway and announced that tea was ready. He sent his child off to the parlor to play while he served tea and small open faced sandwiches on a rich toasted bread. Some of the bread rounds had salmon and dill and cucumbers and some were covered in sweet toppings and brandy-soaked cherries. There were cream filled puffed pastries too, and Aziraphale had no shame about eating them first. As usual, Crowley mostly drank tea, though he accepted a bite of bread smeared with chocolate and a single spoonful of sweetened cream that his mate stirred into his teacup. When Aziraphale had enjoyed at least two of everything on the table and seemed to be slowing down, Natalie asked the same question that she had asked every week for the last month.

"Now, where are we with the plans for Miran?", she said. 

The angel-man sighed. "Lee and Aadi have agreed to take Miran for up to two days, should it be necessary," he said. "Their children are a bit older than he is, but he has played with them before. I've added their names and numbers to the list on the ice box." 

"And for dance recital day," said Crowley, "Ruth has agreed to take him to the theatre if we can't go, and Heather is our back up person for that." He held up his mobile. "I have all four of them on a single text thread, and I'll let them all know when I go into labor. Satisfied?"

Natalie nodded. The angels had been extremely reluctant to rely on help outside of their little family. Their reasons were actually pretty sound. Miran didn't eat at all, and he only rarely drank anything, and that would scare any family that was trying to care for him for more than a few hours. With a birth and caring for a newborn as the main focus of their magical energy, they didn't want to expend any unnecessary energy on calming down their frightened friends. 

Miran was a strange child. But at least with food, he knew how to push food around a plate and pretend to eat. Three years of humoring Aziraphale had made Miran into an expert at mealtime misdirection. There was a decent chance that a distracted parent wouldn't notice that he didn't actually swallow anything. It didn't hurt that he was a very engaging little conversationalist. 

The loo was the bigger issue. In the last few weeks, Miran's parents had come to realize that they needed to teach him to pretend to use the loo. They'd done the simplest possible crash course. They'd taught him to walk into the toilet, shut the door, and count to thirty. Then he was supposed to flush and wash his hands. They were reminding him to do it at least in the morning and at bedtime every day. 

"We've given up on teeth brushing altogether," said Aziraphale, "It's far too complicated to teach on short notice. I don't like having to ask a four year old to remember to do so many new things when he is in a strange environment. Miran is really nervous about having to stay with another family. I do hope, for his sake, that the baby is born overnight. Then he can just sleep through it on the sofa in the shop." 

And indeed, a few minutes later, Natalie got to witness Miran's nervousness up close. When she opened the door after using the toilet in the flat, Miran practically fell into her. He'd been listening at the door. And he was full of questions. He stood in the tiny hallway and peppered her with them.

"Does it hurt make wee?", he asked. "Is it yellow for real?" And then: "Can you make it be 'nother color?", and "Can you do it again and I see too?", and "Do you have a penis?"

Aziraphale came to the rescue and sent Miran off to the parlor to play with his cars so that Natalie could escape back to the kitchen table. 

"You were very patient with his questions," said the angel-man. "I'm afraid that Miran is still not clear on the whole connection between gender and genitals." 

"Eh," said Crowley, "It's ridiculous. But we have to pick one gender or the other." He rubbed his belly. "Just to get through the early years at least."

"But the name," said Natalie, "Tara is a usually a girl's name. I had expected you to choose something more gender neutral, especially if you are planning on using male pronouns for the baby."

"Tara is a very old name," said Aziraphale. "I have known several males named Tara. One of them was a dear friend."

"His friend lived in Persia a long time ago," said Crowley, "The name means 'star.' "

"Or 'soul's light'," said Aziraphale. "And I love it. It reminds me of you, my dear. But if the baby grows up and decides to pick a new name, I will honor that, as I did with you." 

There was a fluttering of little feet in the hall and suddenly Miran was peering over the kitchen table and tugging at Crowley's arm.

"Can Nat Lee come to my recital?", said Miran to his father.

Natalie liked Miran a lot, but she was not a fan of ballet or of children's performances. She tried to keep her face neutral while she calculated how to politely worm her way out of it. Aziraphale, unfortunately, was beaming at his child with indulgent pride. The old angel reached behind himself to the top of the low ice box and pulled a ticket off of it and slipped it onto the table. 

Crowley looked over at his mate and shook his head, very slightly. He was a very courteous mind reader, so he made Natalie's excuse for her. "Natalie has a lot of other families to take care of," he said. He turned to his child. "I'm sure she wants to come see you dance, but she has so many babies to help be born."

Miran nodded. Then he smiled up at Natalie, and she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. His hazel eyes sparkled green and blue and gold, like sunlight sparkling off a pond on a lazy Sunday morning. And she fell into that pond. 

"But maybe," Miran said, "There won't be any babies that need being born and you can come to my recital like you want to."

And, for just a moment, Natalie found herself sincerely wishing to attend a children's dance recital. She found herself nodding, and Miran nodded back at her and Natalie felt that all was right in the world. 

"You'll like it a really lot," said Miran. "It is on Saturday and it is very very fun and I will smile at you when I am dancing and you can blow a kiss and I will catch it." 

"Of course," she said. 

And Crowley snorted.

====================================

Four days later, there she was, trapped in an auditorium that was packed with overly excited parents. And none were more excited than Aziraphale. He was dressed in a cream colored suit with a bow tie and he was bouncing in the chair next to hers and pressing his finger tips together in joyful anticipation as he watched the other parents find their seats. His joy was overflowing, and, Crowley, sitting by his other side, seemed to be somehow basking in it. 

Crowley looked fit to burst. He was in an aisle seat and he was stretching his long legs out into the aisle to make room for his belly. He kept making subtle little movements, writhing in his seat and twitching his hips in response to some unseen pains. But, on the whole, he seemed happy. He had a ghost of a smile on his lips, he seemed to be half-dozing as the woman seated in front of him talked to a very excitable Aziraphale about how to properly size children's dance shoes. 

Today, Crowley hadn't compromised on his fashion look. His clothes were androgynous. He was wearing a somewhat feminine black double breasted blazer which he wore open over a grey stretchy shirt with tight fitting dark denim jeans. The shirt clung smoothly to the muscles of his chest and the prominent roundness of his belly. There were no lines on his belly to show a cloth panel that might hold the jeans up. His hair was an artfully tousled mass of red and he was wearing his seahorse pendant, black stud earrings and his normal sunglasses. 

The dragon-angel was a striking sight, and plenty of people seemed to give him a second glance, and even a third one as they passed. With his satisfied smile and his long body leaned back in his cushioned seat, he looked like a boa constrictor that had recently swallowed some unfortunate prey and was now sunning itself on a on a rock to digest. He was an obviously impaired predator, but still a predator, one that was not to be trifled with. Occasionally he lifted his head to crack his neck or lazily scan the room with his impenetrable glasses. 

Aziraphale looked at his mate with an expression of complete soppy fondness. As the crowd quieted down and started to face forward, he draped an arm behind Crowley's neck and stroked his far shoulder. Crowley tolerated it like a cat accepting worship from a human, twisting his body slightly to move the stroking hand around. As he petted his mate, Aziraphale started a light conversation with Natalie. 

"Last year," explained the angel-man, "I volunteered backstage. So I had to watch Miran's performance from the wings of the stage." 

"Probably still should be back there," Crowley said. But then he purred and leaned the side of his head into Aziraphale's hand, which sort of undercut his whole protest. 

"Nonsense," replied Aziraphale. "My place is with you. When I left, Miran was sitting in a chair and watching a cartoon program. I spoke to the teenage helpers and they are lovely. They will see him through all of his costume changes. I've labeled everything carefully. And, to make it simple, he's wearing the same trousers for all three acts. There's absolutely nothing to worry about. Next year, one of us will have to stand in the back of the auditorium with an an infant in our arms. So this is the year we both get to enjoy ourselves. No compromises."

Crowley winced a little and then rubbed his belly. The lights dimmed and soon Natalie was watching a group of three-year olds stare into the stage lights as they vaguely bobbled around in white tutus and wings while "Heaven is a Place on Earth" played on speakers. As the song ended and the dazed toddlers were led away, the entire room cooed and applauded. Even Aziraphale, theatre snob that was he was, looked indulgently upon the toddlers. Natalie glanced down at her program, where she was using her finger to mark where she was in the program. One dance down, twenty six to go. One hour and forty-seven more minutes of torture in two acts. Why had she not resisted Miran? 

And then the next group of dancers were led onto the stage. Eight little girls in sparkly turquoise dresses wearing little black tap shoes with little blue bows on them. In the middle of them was a little boy wearing black tap shoes, white trousers, a sparkly turquoise vest, a white shirt and a little blue bowtie. It was Miran. As the music started, he smiled his million watt smile, and his little feet started to move. He was the center of the class, he was the star of the act, and he knew it. 

Was he better than the others? Natalie wasn't sure. It wasn't clear what the steps of the dance were supposed to be, but it seemed that Miran was more often than not doing the same thing as the other kids. But even if he was doing the wrong thing, he was supremely confident. He had style and presence. And he was the only boy, so he stood out, and he had special little things he did, like stand at the head of the line of girls and face them and mirror their moves. As the music ended, Miran stood in the middle of the group of girls, looked right out at the audience, and cocked his head ever so slightly as he smiled at them. 

The effect on the audience was palpable. They all cooed and applauded. Miran clasped his hands behind his back and bowed at the waist, a crisp little bow, and then, as the girls started to file off, he stood there on stage, bouncing on his heels with his hands still clasped behind his back, wriggling with pleasure as he soaked up the applause. Then he suddenly startled and ran after his classmates. Everyone in the audience burst into peals of laughter. Then the next group of children came on, and Natalie sunk back into her torpor. 

Routine number fourteen was Miran's second dance, and this time he was wearing the same white trousers but with little white ballet slippers and a canary yellow shirt. The little four and five year old girls from his ballet class were encased in clouds of yellow tulle. And once again, Miran was the center of the dance. And he held that center well. His movements were confident and strong while most of the other children flopped around a half-step behind the beat. Aziraphale smiled gaily. Natalie glanced past the beaming angel-man and caught a glimpse of Crowley. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses in the dark theatre. His reptile eyes were wide and shining. He was nodding very slowly and smiling. 

Intermission came. Crowley put his glasses back on and stood up in the aisle and stretched. He rubbed his enormous belly with his hands and breathed slowly and deliberately. He rocked on his feet from side to side, huffing. Natalie raised an eyebrow and he shook his head. 

"Nope," he said. "Just the Braxton Hicks ones."

Aziraphale stood next to his mate in the aisle. The crowd passed around him as people went for the toilets or to get refreshments in the lobby. People who were very far away seemed to stare at the pregnant dragon-man, but every single person that passed close by either smiled joyfully or was completely absorbed in their own conversation. The people in the seats both in front and in back of him already seemed to know Crowley. They all talked about Miran by name and whenever Crowley twitched with another pre-labor contraction they cheerfully predicted that he would never make it through till Tuesday, which was his official due date. 

Crowley was mostly silent. Aziraphale kept one hand on his mate at all times as he stood in the aisle and talked non-stop to all of the families in the seats surrounding them. He complimented each of the families' daughters with an artful sincerity that somehow made it seem that it had a pleasure to watch every single dance. 

Natalie was impressed. One of the little girls had spent the majority of her time on stage trying to pull her leotard out of her bum, and the angel-man managed to find a way to compliment her performance which made the girl's father and mother swell with pride. Natalie was just trying to convince herself that she, as a medical professional, was immune to the angelic charms, when Aziraphale turned to her and thanked her for coming. 

"It means so much to Miran, you know," he said. "You are the nearest thing to a relative that he has."

Natalie felt her heart go warm. It stayed that way for several minutes. Then, as the people shuffled back into their seats and the lights went out, she remembered that she was stuck at a recital and she had to endure twelve more dances of widely varying quality. 

Miran's final dance was fourth from the end of the program. The lights went down and there was a scraping sound on the stage, and then the lights went up and five little children walked onto the stage: Miran and four girls. They arrayed themselves around a pretend shop counter, all wearing red and white striped outfits: the girls in skirts and little Miran in a red and white striped little vest with a red bowtie and a white pork pie hat with a red band. 

The music started up. It was a medley of fast songs, all themed around candy. Miran stood behind the candy counter as he played the part of a 1950's shop keeper distributing over-sized lollypops to the dancing girls. These girls seemed rather small to be so coordinated. They spun their giant candies like batons. They moved their hips and their chests in ways that seemed a bit precocious for children who were at least three years from puberty. And then, halfway through the act, Miran came around to the front of the counter and started dancing in the middle of them. 

He was tiny. The girls were all at least a head taller than him, and he was keeping up with them pretty well, doing the same moves with his hat that they did with their giant lollypops. There was something almost obscene about a child as small as Miran thrusting his hips from side to side as "I Want Candy" played at high volume. As the music ended, the five children struck dramatic poses. When it came time for them to bow, Miran swept his pork pie hat off his head and held it over his red and white striped belly and gave a crisp little bow as the four girls on either side of him sunk into perfect curtsies. 

'He isn't human', thought Natalie, as the thunderous applause erupted around her. 'He'll live a hundred lifetimes. He is charming because he is an angel. He's talented because he is beyond human. And he probably magically feeds off of the love of the crowd.' She tried to not feel thrilled by him, just to see if she could. But she could only push the feeling away for a moment before it came back. There was nothing for it. She was completely in love with that angel child. She blew him a kiss, like he'd asked her to do. He didn't catch the kiss. He was standing on stage, wide-eyed under the blinding lights, with his little hat in his hands and his mouth open in pure joy as if all the applause were the greatest present he had ever received. One of girls had to poke him with her lollypop to get him to move off the stage when it was time to leave. 

Natalie glanced over at Miran's parents. Aziraphale had his hands on his cheeks and his mouth open in an exact duplicate of Miran's joyful expression. Crowley looked besotted. His golden eyes had welled up with tears and he was clapping his hands. 

Three more dance acts, and the show was finally over. All the hundreds of children, big and small, came out and crowded the stage for a final bow. In all of the crowd of children there were only a handful of little boys, and, because he was so small, Miran was seated in the second row, right behind a bunch of toddlers in purple skirts. The audience stood and applauded and Miran waved with both hands and smiled. 

When the curtain dropped, Crowley put on his sunglasses. He hauled himself to his feet and stood at the end of the aisle to let everyone out of the row, and then he collapsed back into his seat and sat with his legs apart and smoothed his hands over his enormous belly. The friends in the nearby seats all left to go fetch their children from backstage. Natalie stood next to Aziraphale in the aisle. The angel-man waved at some other parents, who came over to say hello and congratulate him, both on Miran's performance and the upcoming birth. Once Crowley was surrounded with well wishers, Aziraphale excused himself, pushed his way down the aisle, and disappeared into a small side door near the front of the theatre.

Crowley's whole demeanor changed the instant his mate left. He accepted all the congratulations with perfect politeness, but there was a greater tension in his body, and Natalie got the impression that, behind his sunglasses, he was scanning the room with his eyes. Suddenly he grunted and rubbed at his belly.

"How are you feeling?" said one of the mothers. 

"Fine," said Crowley. "Baby is kicking like mad. Kid wants to be born." 

"You haven't lived until someone has kicked your lungs from the inside," said another one of the mothers. 

Pink haired Ruth came by a few moments later, tugging her daughter Lily, still clad in yellow tulle, and a slightly older daughter, about eight or nine years old, who was wearing a green leotard and a black skirt. 

"Are we starting a betting pool?", said Ruth. "I don't think he'll make it past tonight."

"I'll take that bet," said another woman. "The baby hasn't dropped. I'd say he's got a week to go."

Then Ruth's older daughter looked down at Crowley and said: "I don't understand. Are you a man or a woman, then?" 

"I'm very special," said Crowley. "I'm a male who can have babies. There aren't many of us."

The girl's jaw dropped. Then a look of astonished delight spread across her face. "You should teach the other men how to have babies," she said. "Then the women wouldn't have to do all the work. Women have enough to do without having to hav _e all_ the babies." 

There were several guffaws and the sound of several men coughing simultaneously. 

Ruth smirked. "Will we see Miran at dance camp this summer?", she asked. "I can take him to and from if he goes the same weeks as my two. That will be one less thing for you to have to do." 

The women in the group nodded. Mobiles were pulled out of pockets and schedules were coordinated so that the responsibility of ferrying Miran to and from summer camp was divided evenly among the three families that lived reasonably close to the bookshop. 

Crowley's face suddenly lit up, and then Aziraphale appeared. The angel-man was holding an over stuffed garment bag and a little canvas tote. Miran scooted between the grown-up's legs and planted himself in the exact middle of the group. He was dressed in a little t-shirt with a rainbow on it and a pair of denim jeans. He was hopping and skipping and smiling at everyone, but the first person he spoke to was Natalie. 

"Did you see me Nat Lee?", he said. "I was in the sparkle shirt and then candy cane. Did you see me?" Natalie said some enthusiastic things, then Miran squeezed between Crowley's legs and the seat backs in front of him, and threw his arms around the enormous belly. 

"Hi Daddy!", he said. "Hello Tummy Baby! Can you hear me? It's Miran. Are you happy with me? Are you a happy Tummy Baby?"

Aziraphale smiled at everyone, and said kind things to all the children, and then he helped his mate up the aisle and through the lobby. Natalie held Miran's hand, as Aziraphale's hands were full of clothes. They got to the Bentley and laid the clothes on the backseat. Then Natalie took a picture of the three of them leaning against the side of the car. "It might be the very last picture before the baby comes," said Aziraphale. Natalie said her goodbyes and headed to her own car. As she was walking away, she heard Miran's clear little voice.

"Papa," said Miran. "Can you make wee out of your penis if you really really want to?"

"The answer to that is rather complicated, Merry." said the angel-man. "We shall save your question for when we get home."

====================================

Natalie found out the story behind Miran's question on her next home visit to the angels' flat. 

When she arrived, Miran was in the parlor watching television. It was a rare treat and he was completely engrossed. As Natalie came in, Aziraphale pulled the parlor door shut and led her over to the kitchen table.

"Something happened," said Crowley, in a low voice. "During the show."

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. 

"One of us should have been backstage," said Crowley.

"Nonsense," said Aziraphale. "There was no reason at all for us to expect to be needed. He was wearing the same pair of trousers for all three of his acts. All he needed to do was change shoes and shirt for each act. And Ruth was keeping an eye on him."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "And now she's upset with us too."

"Only because she had no idea," said Aziraphale. "She would have protected him had she known, and now she feels responsible for letting it happen."

Crowley frowned. 

"We are calling it "The Toilet Incident." Aziraphale whispered through gritted teeth. "It is what comes from his insatiable curiosity. One of the other back stage parents asked all the boys if they needed the loo, and I'm afraid that Miran went along with them. He simply had to find out what human people do in the loo."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Our kid stood around in the toilet and watched the older boys do their business, because he wanted to witness the glories of urination."

"And," said Aziraphale, "It's not exactly clear how it happened, but somehow, one of the older boys got the impression that Miran is actually a girl, and now there are rumors that we are pretending he is a boy in order to get him special treatment at the school."

"We can figure out what happened, Angel," said Crowley. "It's obvious. Our kid must have pulled down his pants and showed the other kids his equipment. He's always looking for attention, and I'm sure he got plenty of it."

"Did anyone at the dance school know he's intersex?", said Natalie.

"They're all figuring it out now," said Crowley. "And, because some of them are self-absorbed c-"

"Ahem," said Aziraphale.

"Cows," said Crowley. "Great empty headed cows with their tails and legs all smeared with their own sh-"

Aziraphale spoke over him. "Some of the-- Well I certainly wouldn't call them ladies. Some of the women whose children share in his classes. Not all of them, mind you. A small minority, really. Well--" 

"Get on with it, Angel," said Crowley. "Or I'll tell the story _my_ way." It was interesting, Natalie thought, that Crowley so often called Aziraphale 'Angel', as if he weren't one himself. That was actually really odd, and it seemed worth paying attention to. 

"They are saying that since Miran often wears skirts or things with flowers or feminine themes, that he must actually be a girl, and that therefore he should have been dancing with the girls," said Aziraphale.

"They're jealous," said Crowley. "Because our kid has talent."

"They're concerned," said Aziraphale. "Or they pretend to be concerned, that he is taking unfair advantage of the extra attention that boys in dance receive."

"Course, they got it wrong," Crowley said. "Miran is taking unfair advantage of ALL the social benefits that males receive." 

"I've telephoned the head teacher at the school," said Aziraphale, "And she assures me that she has absolutely no problem with Miran continuing to take boy dance roles in the future. She is delighted to have him. As for the other parents, once their curiosity is satisfied, I'm certain this will all blow over."

Crowley shook his head. "Mark my words, Angel, this is nowhere near over."

====================================

Natalie agreed with Crowley. And the timing was pretty terrible. Crowley and Aziraphale were both so fiercely protective of their child and under normal circumstances, the bullies at Miran's dance school wouldn't have stood a chance. But the angels were hoarding their energy, saving it up for the birth, for just in case things went badly and a C-section was needed. They were distracted, and, until the baby was safely born, they wouldn't be able to bring the full force of their mentalist powers to bear on the situation. 

But as Natalie was thinking about her conversation with the angels, there was another thing that she was thinking about. She turned it over in her mind as she drove away from the bookshop. The thing she wondered was why Crowley didn't apply the word 'angel' to himself. Whenever he was upset or exhausted, he would apply the word 'angel' to his mate, but Aziraphale never used that word for Crowley. It was strange. 

The two of them had said they were angels 'after a fashion.' But clearly there was a difference in status between them. Crowley didn't identify as an angel, even though he was in some way an angel. Perhaps he was too low in rank to be technically considered an angel. Or perhaps he had left the other angels, or been forced out, long before his mate left them. That latter story seemed to fit his personality. He was fiercely independent. 

But Natalie didn't get much time to ponder. As she was driving, she got an urgent text from one of her midwives, and she had to call her back immediately. Then, when she walked into the office, she was hit with an absolute tsunami of complicated cases that she needed to help her staff to manage. One of the patients, who already had a previous birth trauma, had just discovered that her fetus had a hole in its heart. A woman who was expecting twins had become homeless and gotten an STI diagnosis on top of it all. And there was a woman with an intellectual disability who was perfectly capable of breastfeeding her healthy full term infant, but the young midwife who had delivered her was having trouble figuring out how to advocate for her in the face of a doctor who was not just skeptical but actively hostile to the patient. 

When Natalie finally got all the situations under control, delegated, solved, and settled the rest of the day had passed. It was nearly eight PM when she got home. Richard was having his usual group of friends over for their weekly board game night. The gang were playing a new game that had dice and funny little plastic gems and lots of colorful little wooden and cardboard pieces in assorted shapes. That was pretty much like all their other games. But on this game, there happened to be a giant illustration of an angel right in the middle of the board. And that illustration reminded Natalie of the train of thought that she had abandoned earlier in the day. 

"So what do you call an angel who gets banished from angel society for doing or saying something that is offensive to the other angels?", Natalie asked the room at large. Everyone answered without even looking up from the board. 

"Fallen angel."

"Devil."

"A demon."

"I'm also going to take two tokens this round."

"How do you have that many actions already? Can we have a look at the rules again?"

"Yes, thanks everyone," said Natalie. 

Richard grabbed her hand as she passed by. He leaned back in his chair and gave her a kiss. "I got you a curry," he said, "It's in the kitchen. Should still be warm."

====================================

Demons. They were demons. Well Crowley was. Aziraphale might be an angel or he might be a brand new demon, newly fallen, perhaps as recently as five or so years ago. Natalie's friends were demons and that was a little bit unsettling. 

Natalie thought about this as she sat at the kitchen window by herself and stared at the street below and ate her curry. 

The question was, did knowing that they were demons change anything about her relationship with them? Natalie tried to be objective as she sorted through her memories. As frighteningly powerful as they were, her inhuman friends didn't seem terribly inclined to hurt people. The only time Natalie had directly witnessed them using their infernal powers had been to manipulate her into helping them save their child, to heal each other, and to protect their child's wings from being seen. And there were the subtle social manipulations. Miran and Aziraphale were both frighteningly likable. But on the whole, the family really did seem to just want a quiet life. 

Natalie tried to imagine Crowley and Aziraphale doing devilish things when she wasn't around. Perhaps they were cordial and nice to her, but did horrible things to people they didn't care about. But that didn't seem to fit what she had seen of their personalities. Natalie thought that even the awful ignorant people who were picking on the demons' child would probably be perfectly safe. 

Even though they'd lied to her about themselves, over the last four and half years, the demons had steered enough luck her way that she had been able to increase the amount of patient care that she could directly provide by ten-fold. She had a medical researcher who took her seriously enough to add her name into the list of fifteen co-authors on his big research paper on improving health outcomes for pregnant teenagers. And now an enthusiastic young couple was trying to convince her to rewrite her lectures as compact ten minute mini-lessons. They wanted to put special make-up on her and have her record them in their studio. There seemed to be plans for some sort of complicated "post production" that involved graphics. It was all amazing and interesting, and it would get her messages and her techniques out to more young nurses and doctors and midwives. So what if she'd made a deal with some demons? Thousands of lower complication, healthier births had been had. How could she let a terrible label prevent her from accepting opportunities to make the world better? 

Natalie chased the last bits of rice around in the corners of the take-away box. It was settled in her mind. If Crowley and Aziraphale were demons, then they were charitable demons who supported health care for marginalized people and were patrons of the arts. Clearly some demons were good people. Their only devilish trait seemed to be hedonism. Maybe demons had gotten as much bad press as queer people. She probably shouldn't even use the word "demon." It was probably a rude slur. 

Richard came into the kitchen.

"What if devils or demons are actually just angels who have more complex personalities?", she said. 

"That's a funny thought," said Richard. "Why are we speaking about devils?"

That was the moment when Natalie's mobile rang.

"It's me, Aziraphale," said the rather-complex-or-maybe-ex-angel. "I think that he's started true labor. The contractions aren't stopping this time. He's been pacing in the book shop for hours, and-- Oh! Hold on." Aziraphale seemed to be talking to his mate. "Well, can you at least _try_ to move off of the oriental rug? Yes. Obviously. Of course I'll tell her." 

"What's happening?", said Natalie.

"His waters have broken just now," said Aziraphale. "This is it."


	7. Early Labor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley struggle to figure out how to handle the bigoted public argument that is swirling around their child. They deal with early labor with pastoral prints, queer-friendly television, and tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: crowley uses the c-word.
> 
> Also nudity-- cause its a birth.

Crowley was at the beginning of his labor when Aziraphale called. Natalie had time to make a few important phone calls to all her back up people at the clinic and to the hospital. As she was about to walk out the door, Richard brought her two insulated mugs of strong tea and three energy bars. He carried them and some of the bags to the car. She double checked all her equipment and loaded it in herself. Then he gave her a kiss, a good one, so she could carry the love with her all night. 

"See you tomorrow?", he said. 

"Probably by noon," she replied. 

"Is it them?", he asked. "You can't say. Right. Well if it is, tell them I wish them luck."

===========================================

It was almost nine o'clock when Natalie arrived at the shop. Just after sunset on a midsummer day. The twilight sky was purple and orange. Aziraphale answered the door to the shop with one hand up to grasp and silence the clapper on the bell over the door. 

"Miran is sleeping in the shop tonight," whispered Aziraphale. 

Natalie nodded and silently handed him the first two bags. Then she went back to her car for three more and handed them over. Aziraphale put them inside the door and then followed her onto the street and directed traffic so that she could back the car into an alley. Then Natalie squeezed herself out of the car and slid between the brick wall and the car and followed him back into the shop. 

Aziraphale insisted on carrying the two heaviest bags for her. Natalie took the rest and tiptoed behind him, past the little seating area, and there, on the sofa, was a sleeping little child who was perhaps an angel or perhaps a demon or perhaps something else, something more complex, that he could name for himself when he grew up. 

Aziraphale led Natalie up the stairs and through the maze of bookshelves to the door of the flat. 

"Won't Miran be afraid if he wakes up alone?", said Natalie.

"He won't wake till the baby is born," said Aziraphale. And then, in answer to her look of concern. "It's easier that way." 

He was right, of course. There wasn't a better way. Hopefully baby would be born by morning. If not, they could deal with it tomorrow. 

"Now," said Aziraphale. "There are two large pots of boiled water on the hob. One has been brought down to slightly above body temperature, but mind the other. It is just below boiling, and it will remain so indefinitely."

Natalie nodded her thanks as if this were the normal sort of amenity that any midwife should have at her home births. 

"How far apart are contractions now?", she said. 

"About every five minutes," said Aziraphale. "Crowley is doing wonderfully."

The perhaps newly fallen angel opened the door into the cramped hallway, and a howl rang out from just inside. Aziraphale and Natalie ran in to find Crowley in the parlor, on the floor. Crowley was on all fours, still completely dressed in something stylish and black. He was facing away from the doorway. His tight-fitting leggings were stained, but that seemed to be the least of his problems, because his whole body radiated tension and he was cursing vigorously.

"My goodness!", said Aziraphale, "What happened?"

"What is your pain level?", asked Natalie, as she set her things down in the tiny hall. He didn't answer. He was panting and growling between rounds of cursing. His face was a handsbreadth from the floor. The carpet had been entirely covered with an enormous oilcloth with a pastoral print pattern. 

Natalie walked around her distressed patient only to find that he was leaning over his mobile, his forearms resting on the oilcloth, his thumbs rapidly typing out a message.

"You horses' cunt!", he screamed at the screen. "How dare you! Well I hope _your_ baby is a hedgehog and it comes out sideways!" 

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "I see."

The complex-or-possibly-ex angel knelt down in front of his partner. 

"Darling," said Aziraphale. "We need to put the mobile away. This is hardly the time." 

"I'm not done!", said Crowley, as Aziraphale started to twist the mobile out of his hands. "That was for Emily. I haven't replied to Tiffany. You won't believe what she wrote about OUR child!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

"An entirely inappropriate discussion of Miran's gender identity is on-going among the parents at the dance school," said Aziraphale to Natalie. He turned to his partner: "That wasn't what you were supposed to be doing while I was gone."

Aziraphale removed the mobile from his partner's hand as Crowley began panting. The (possibly) ex-angel glanced down at the screen. Then he narrowed his eyes and read it very closely. "Oh," he said. "I see." He set the mobile down on the floor in front of Crowley. "You may tell Tiffany that she is a thoroughly despicable human being and that she should go fuck herself."

Crowley made a low groan and nodded. 

"After this contraction has passed of course," said Aziraphale. He rubbed circles on his partner's back. "There's a dear, breathe through it. Visualize yourself strangling that cow. It will help you to relax."

===========================================

In the end, Natalie had to take the mobile away from both of them. Crowley kept trying to sneakily check all of the platforms on which people might be talking about him or his child, so she had to kneel on the floor and watch over his shoulder as he opened his messaging app and sent out the texts to the four families who had been planning to help babysit Miran. Then she took the mobile from his hands, turned it off, and tucked it away in a corner of the room. Apparently it didn't require charging. But Natalie was used to this sort of strangeness. She was all but certain that a magically powered mobile phone wasn't going to be oddest thing that she would need to deal with in the next hours.

"I need to see where you are in your labor right now," Natalie said to Crowley. She pulled a sheet out of her bag and handed it to Aziraphale. "I'll step out so he can undress." 

Natalie stepped into the hall, partly to provide modesty to her patient, but mostly to spare herself the eerie sight of watching her patient's clothes melt into nothing-ness. She had long suspected that was what happened whenever he undressed, but tonight didn't need to be the night that she found out for sure. 

She stood in the hall and trained her eyes on the complex Victorian brocade pattern wallpaper, and she refused to look at her watch. Even so, when Aziraphale called her in, Natalie knew that less than ten seconds had elapsed. And there was Crowley half covered in a sheet, still wearing his seahorse pendent. In the room, there was no trace at all of the clothes that he had seemed to have been wearing. 

Fortunately, baby had decided to have a heartbeat, so she didn't even need to use the portable ultrasound to determine that baby was healthy and comfortable. She pulled on some gloves and asked permission to make a more intimate examination. In order to give her access, her patient threw a leg over one arm of the armchair and sprawled sideways across it with his head hanging upside down off of the other arm. His partner stood on the side of the chair and looked into Crowley's upside down face and stroked his cheeks. Crowley still had to brace himself to avoid flinching every time she touched him, so Natalie worked as efficiently as possible, warning him before every touch. She didn't want to shock him into clenching up. It could retard the labor. 

It was a strange scene. The naked man-like creature was sitting in a Victorian armchair which had been covered with a thick waterproof furniture pad of the type commonly used by owners of large and filthy dogs. Unlike every other furniture cover Natalie had ever seen, this one wasn't a dull solid color. It had a rose pattern on it that was at least fifty years out of style. And to protect the furniture cover, a pink bath towel with a floral pattern was laid across the seat of the chair, which meant that the chair was wearing more layers of fabric protection than the inhuman person sitting on it was. Although, perhaps, in some sense, the human appearance that Crowley affected was a sort of clothing in itself. Maybe he wasn't truly naked until he had scales and feathers. 

That was precisely the sort of dizzying thought that it was important not to have at this stage. So Natalie, very resolutely, put it aside and focused on the normal aspects of this birth. 

"You and baby are both in great shape," said Natalie. "It's going to be a few hours before things really get going, so now it's time to just find a comfortable position to labor in. Would you like to get dressed?"

"Nah," said Crowley. "Why bother? I'll just end up like this in the end." 

"One moment," said Aziraphale. And he rushed off to the bedroom and returned with a ribbon wrapped box that turned out to contain a soft cotton dressing gown covered with a complex pattern of black and red birds and red berries. 

"Uh," said Crowley. "Yeah. That's fine too." And he let his mate help him put it on. 

Aziraphale smoothed down the lapels of the dressing gown over his mate's chest and adjusted the belt high over the great belly. "Much better," he said. And then he excused himself to go make some tea.

===========================================

Now that he was as thoroughly dressed as the furniture, Crowley opted to stand up and drape himself over the arm chair in a strange half-sideways position, with one foot on the floor and the other up on the cushion of the seat. He rested most of his body weight over the the foot that was on the cushion and he twisted his upper body sideways and draped his arms over the back rest. He looked like a runner in a starting block, except vertical. 

The chair was the one that used to be in the bedroom. Natalie suspected that it was an actual Victorian antique. When it wasn't covered in protective floral layers, it had plush red upholstery and carved wooden animal feet and an ornately carved wooden railing around the cushion on its back. The wood was probably mahogany. The backrest of the arm chair was reclined at a comfortable angle that modern furniture didn't often have. It was a beautiful antique piece and now it was being used like gymnastic equipment by a tall and heavy man-like creature. How had it not fallen apart after a hundred and fifty years of this kind of treatment? Like so much about the un-angels' lives, it was best not to think about it. 

At any rate, Crowley's odd position was more than just a virtuoso display of strength and flexibility. It was also an excellent position for labor. His hips were wide open and his upper body was mostly vertical and tilted slightly forward. All of that would help baby descend. During his contractions, Crowley even remembered all the calming breathing techniques Natalie had taught him. So, apart from her slight twinge of upset at the abuse of the antique furniture, Natalie was pleased. 

However, when Aziraphale returned with mugs of tea for all of them (Crowley's, he assured, was herbal), something happened that Natalie didn't approve of at all. No sooner had the mugs of tea been set on an end table to cool, than the couple started to argue. Within a minute, their voices were raised.

"Absolutely not," Crowley said. "I won't send him to that dance camp. They'll be vicious to him. It will break his heart."

"And his heart will be equally broken if we don't let him dance over the summer," said Aziraphale. He stood near the tilted back of the arm chair, one hand braced against it to keep it from tipping over from the force of Crowley's angry gesticulations. He said: "We need to rely on the teachers to protect him." 

Crowley made an angry noise of disagreement.

Natalie was kneeling on the floor and inflating her largest birthing ball with a battery operated air pump.

"We need to concentrate on our breathing," said Natalie, over the whine of the pump. "Everything else can wait until after baby is born."

The only-very-technically-angels ignored her. Their voices carried over the sound of the pump as they continued their argument. 

"He can just go to his preschool for the summer," said the pregnant man-shaped creature. "Nothing wrong with doing more preschool. He's four! He'll be fine!"

"I'm not limiting his life because of one incident," said Aziraphale. "He wishes to attend dance camp, and he shall."

Crowley shook his head. "No."

"You are being absurd," said Aziraphale. "Surely calm will prevail by the time camp starts. There are only two people who are truly upset by this, and their children might not even be there. As for the others, they'll soon realize they've no real reason to be concerned about his gender. It is hardly a professional dance troupe. No one's livelihood is threatened by Miran presenting himself as male." 

And then there was a contraction, and the argument was paused while Crowley made soft breathy exhalations and Aziraphale stroked his hair. But when the contraction was done, Crowley picked up his head and went right back to his point.

"How can you have lived so long and be so naive?", said Crowley. "Why won't you believe me when I tell you what humans are like when you aren't there? The children aren't going to just forget. And the teachers and teenage counselors are not the kind of heroes you seem to think they are."

"They will be for him," said Aziraphale. He raised his eyebrows emphatically. 

"He is a little child," said Crowley. "He doesn't have that level of control over what he's doing and and he can't tell friend from foe. For Hell's sake, he pulled his pants down for an eleven year old because the kid smiled at him. It doesn't matter how powerful Miran is if he has no judgement." 

"Why don't you show some judgement yourself and _watch your words,_ " said Aziraphale. 

"Well I have judgement," said Natalie, "And my judgement is that if you want to have an easy birth, you both need to stop talking about things that make Crowley feel stressed."

Crowley growled at Natalie. "I have two kids to worry about," he said. "Not just one."

"I will take care of it," said Aziraphale, with finality. 

"Every day of dance camp?", said Crowley. "For every teacher and every child? You can't. Not with a newborn in the house. That is wishful thinking, that is. And your wishful hope doesn't protect my child!"

Aziraphale said something very angry sounding in the not-English language that he used for private conversations. Crowley responded by rolling his eyes, which earned him a lecture in the not-English language. The lecture only ended when a contraction started. 

And when the contraction was done, Natalie had a lecture for Crowley too.

"I know how deeply you love Miran, and how important it is to make the best decision for him. But this conversation has to wait until after baby is born. Right now, the best thing you can do for Miran is to focus on being with your body and on letting this birth happen. I think that if you do there is a good chance that you can have this baby by morning so that Miran doesn't have to go visit another family while he waits."

"You are patronizing me," said Crowley.

"I'm telling you the truth in a kind way," said Natalie. "It makes things more pleasant. But I can be brutal and cruel if it motivates you to focus where you need to focus. Is that what you prefer?"

"I'm way older than you," said Crowley. "Don't forget that."

"I know what I'm doing," said Natalie. "Don't you forget that." 

Crowley nodded. "That last one hurt," he said. "A six already."

"The right position and the right breathing patterns will help a lot," said Natalie. She didn't mention that not having a fight with your spouse was also recommended for easier labor. Instead she said: "We can try the birthing ball." 

He shook his head. But he seemed to be done arguing and there was unpacking to do, and so Natalie let Aziraphale and Crowley do whatever non-fighting things they wanted. Apparently, what they wanted to do was stew. Crowley switched legs, so that the other leg was up on the chair. He drummed his fingers on the back railing of the chair. Aziraphale sat down on the sofa and sipped his tea. 

Natalie chose to ignore the thick silence and to focus on setting things up in the room. First, she found a place for the two thermoses of especially strong tea that Richard had sent along with her. Then she cleared an end table and set out some medical supplies. She put her bags by the door and stacked her birthing ball, peanut-shaped ball, bolsters, pillows, and old towels and blankets in the far corner of the room. And then she was done. 

Crowley's next contraction was, in her opinion, more painful than it needed to be. He was clearly still very angry. He leaned over the back of the chair and scowled and hissed as the pain overtook him. 

Aziraphale put down his tea. He got up from the sofa and stood behind his partner and dug his fists into Crowley's lower back to provide some counterpressure. "Does this help?", he asked. 

Crowley nodded, and then he started to cry. His sobs sounded like they were as much from grief as from labor; his whole body was wracked and twitching. Natalie let it be. Emotions that were held back could block a healthy labor, and a good cry might release tension and help his body to relax. The crying went on long after the actual contraction had ended. 

Crowley snuffled into the floral patterned furniture cover and then he lifted his head up off the back of the chair and half turned around until he met Aziraphale's eyes. His yellow eyes were still full of tears. 

"I can't tell you the names they called him," said Crowley. "It would break your heart." Aziraphale pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to his mate. Crowley wiped his eyes.

"And they blame me," said Crowley. "Emily and the others. They think he is intersex because of some hormone thing that has to do with my body not being female enough. They said that my body damaged him. They called me a --" 

"No," said Natalie. "Their words are not welcome here. We don't repeat lies."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. "Are you quite sure that isn't actually how it works? For them, I mean."

"Absolutely sure," said Natalie. "That isn't even remotely how things work for humans. If you were both human and Miran were human, it would just be a one in a thousand coincidence that he happened to be intersex. Like the one in a thousand times it happens for any couple."

"Figures," said Crowley. "That's how it usually goes. They make things up to justify pushing people out. Somebody doesn't follow the rules, and they become--" 

"Demonized," Natalie supplied. 

Aziraphale gasped. Crowley tilted his head. He turned to Natalie and searched her face with his wet snake-like eyes. Then, very slowly, he nodded. He exhaled very long and slow. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then wiped them with the back of his hand. And then he opened his eyes and he smiled at her, all teeth, a slow smile of acknowledgement. 

Aziraphale took a step away from Crowley. He put himself between Natalie and his mate. 

"It's okay, Angel," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Crowley reached out and took his mate by the wrist and pulled him back. 

Aziraphale bent over Crowley until he was nose to nose with his mate, and he said something in the not-English language. 

"Don't bother," replied Crowley. "S'okay. Let it be. Trust me."

Crowley had spoken in English. He had been talking to Aziraphale, but he wanted her to know what was going on. That, in itself, was a message of trust. And the old demon had just deliberately let her in on the fact that his mate (who was possibly also a demon) had been preparing to mess with her head to make her forget that they were demons.

Of course, Natalie didn't need to forget that they were demons to remember that they were people. And she didn't think that any of the traits usually associated with demons applied to them. She tried to find a better name for what they were, a phrase that didn't have the negative weight. Free-thinking angels? Defectors? Angelic apostates? The alternative phrases didn't seem quite right, but no matter.

"I don't care," said Natalie. "I don't care what label you bear. My only concern is that you are working yourself up at time when you need to focus on your baby and on letting your body do what it needs to do to open for baby. So from now until baby is born, we are not going to talk about any of this. It is time for slow deep breaths." 

Natalie took her own advice, and took some slow deep breaths. Some other day, she would have time to contemplate whether there was a reason that she hadn't deduced that Crowley was a demon, (or apostate-- slurs really did have a lot of sticking power in the mind) until just this week. Some other day, she might have time to contemplate the full ramifications of the fact that Aziraphale was a far more experienced and subtle mentalist than his four year old son. Right now, it was time to focus on creating an environment for a healthy labor and birth. 

Natalie stood next to the fussily dressed chair, in front of her stylishly robed patient. She didn't put her hands on him, because he didn't like to be touched by her, but she matched her breaths to his and then helped him to breathe through his next contraction. He lounged sideways and half standing in the armchair. He let his mate touch his shoulders, but he shared his breaths with Natalie, and, as he did, Natalie felt a change in the very air. 

When the contraction passed, she looked into the alien eyes, the eyes of a creature that others would call a demon. She saw that he was choosing to trust her. Which meant that all the months and years of mealtimes and gentle conversations that she had shared with him were now converted into emotional currency that she could trade on to coax his body into giving birth. 

And because she had spent so many years babysitting at his house, she knew exactly what to do when the contraction was done. She reached for the correct remote and turned on the television. 

"What do you find relaxing?", she asked. "Nature shows? Bake Off?"

Fortunately, there was a television show that Crowley found deeply relaxing. It was a sitcom from the United States that had aired thirty years ago. It was called The Golden Girls. Natalie's patient was soon lost in his show, contentedly laboring on his side on the sofa with his head in his mate's lap, his new red and black dressing gown wrapped around him, and a large peanut-shaped ball between his thighs.

The Golden Girls was a farcical sitcom about four retired women in Florida and their preposterous misadventures. In any given episode the women might attempt to solve a murder, disastrously fail at home repair, or end up competing in a game show. Along the way they exchanged witty banter and navigated an endless series of romantic disasters. At the end of each twenty two minute episode, all was made right by the power of their friendship. The show was, in its own way, hypnotic: the one-liners, the sight gags, the fast paced rhythm of it. It certainly was a powerful drug for Crowley. He stared at the television in a trance and, when roused to speak, reported his worst pain at only a five out of ten. 

After an hour or so of watching, when an episode had ended and the closing credit song "Thank You for Being a Friend", was playing, Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and spoke. 

"Bit of irony there," he said. "You claiming that you trust others so broadly and complaining that I'm so slow to trust, but when it really comes down to it--"

"You've made your point," said the (probably) ex-angel. He glanced across the room at Natalie who was starting to appreciate that angels (or ex-angels) could be manipulative bastards, and demons (or defectors) could be quite honest. 

So much for stereotypes. 

Natalie smiled at her inhuman client and his partner. She sipped her tea. She kept her thoughts to herself, inasmuch as that was possible in a room full of mind-readers. As the the next episode of The Golden Girls got going, she pulled an energy bar out of her pocket, but the sound of the crackling of the wrapper drew an affronted glare from Aziraphale.

"Don't you dare!", he said. And he directed her to the icebox, where an assortment of delicious sandwiches, pastries and fruits awaited. He wouldn't leave his position as Crowley's pillow in order to make himself a plate, but he gave precise directions to Natalie, and, accordingly, she brought him a small mountain of food. Over the course of an episode and a half, he managed to eat it all, and without dropping so much as a crumb. This was good, because, lying on his side in Aziraphale's lap as he was, Crowley would have probably gotten an earful of breadcrust and biscuit crumbs. 

After the late night meal, Natalie reclined in the Victorian armchair and looked through the dozen and a half books on natural childbirth and midwifery that filled a large section of the parlor's book shelves. Aziraphale had been thoroughly committed to being prepared this time around and had gone far beyond purchasing the two books she had recommended. Some of the books weren't in English and most of them she'd either read or could have written herself. Still, it was a way to pass the time. 

There wasn't much to do at this stage. It was the time to conserve everyone's energy. Whenever a contraction came, Crowley did all the right things, just like she'd taught him. He made lowing and mooing sounds and pushed the breath down and breathed himself open. When each contraction was done, she nodded her approval, though it didn't matter. He was entranced by the telly. Natalie didn't have to interrupt the show to see how the baby was doing. She knew that Crowley and his mate could both sense the baby and she could read baby's health in their contented faces. 

Around midnight, Crowley took the remote and paused the telly. "I really miss Bea Arthur," he said. "She was a good person."

And the non-angels were silent for a minute. Aziraphale reached down and squeezed his partner's hand. Natalie checked her watch. It was a good time to check again to see how Crowley was progressing. Before Natalie even spoke, Crowley looked up at her and nodded. The moment of remembrance was done. So she approached him. He tried to pull the enormous peanut-ball out from between his thighs, but he couldn't manage it. He was just too awkward. 

"Don't worry," said Natalie. "I'll take care of it." 

This time when she put her hand on his leg, he seemed calmer than he'd ever been. She wasn't sure if she should thank The Golden Girls or his coming out as a demon. Either way, he was a lot easier to handle. Natalie pushed the black and red fabric of the dressing gown up and she eased the peanut ball out from between her patient's thighs. She balanced his upper leg on her shoulder, turned on her head torch and checked his progress. 

"Excellent," she said. "We have still got a fair bit of work ahead, but you're making good progress. Just as it should be." 

"How many centimeters?", asked Aziraphale.

"Three," she said. "But let's not get too attached to numbers. These things take as long as they take."

With Aziraphale's help, Crowley rolled to sitting and then he stood up and stretched. He paced across the pastoral print floor for a few minutes, and then he evicted Natalie from the armchair so he could put one foot on the seat and do his strange sideways stretch again. He spent ten minutes with one foot up, and then he switched to the other, and then back again. He watched the telly over the back of the chair. His mate held up a mug of herbal tea for him to drink, and he took in about a half-cup of liquid before he didn't want any more. 

When Crowley got tired of his vertical calisthenics, Natalie brought the birthing ball over. She couldn't bear to ruin one of the floral print towels that Aziraphale had set out, so she put one of her own towels onto the ball, and Aziraphale helped Crowley to sit on it. They arranged things so that the ball was in front of the sofa, so that Aziraphale could sit behind Crowley to make sure he didn't roll away. Natalie dragged the armchair over and put it sideways in front of him so that he'd have something to lean on. She angled it carefully so that it wouldn't block his view of the telly. The big pig shaped floor pillow proved its worth. Doubled over, it gave the arm of the chair enough height that Crowley could lean on it and get some good support for his tall body as he rocked from side to side on the giant birthing ball.

"Yep," he said. "This is helping. Something to push against."

"Good," said Natalie. "Now lets review your breathing techniques."

"Barnyard animal noises, coming up," said Crowley. One of the advantages of him having worked with a pelvic floor specialist for so many months was that Crowley had a lot more voluntary control over the muscles needed for birth than most birthing parents had. Amy had shared which pelvic floor opening exercises worked best for Crowley, and Natalie put that knowledge to good use as she coached him. For the next few contractions, and then though three more episodes of The Golden Girls, Crowley made flappy horse lips and deep cow moos. 

Aziraphale sat behind him on the sofa, sometimes rubbing his back, sometimes putting warm compresses on his neck, and occasionally using his feet to stop the ball from rolling away. 

Natalie watched her patient's eyes. As time went on, they became a bit less focused. By one-thirty in the morning, he wasn't attending to the show as much. Between contractions, he was closing his eyes and laying his head on the pillow between his arms. When Crowley started to look a little peaky, Natalie offered cold water. He refused it, so she tried cold herbal tea and he drank some sips of that through a straw. He took in another half cup of fluid over the course of twenty minutes, and he seemed to grow stronger. 

But after a while it was painfully obvious that Crowley wasn't watching his show at all. 

"They're getting intense," he said. "Sevens and eights."

He was tired of sitting on the ball, so they helped him to stand and he ended up resting his arms on Aziraphale's shoulders and just rocking back and forth from one foot to the other in a slow dance. Natalie switched from the telly to music. Crowley had a playlist of disco tunes that he liked, but he seemed to like the volume low with the bass turned up so that he mostly heard the beat. 

"Perhaps," said Aziraphale, after a while, "I should be more aggressive about making you comfortable."

"Save your strength," said Crowley, "I want you to have something leftover. If we need to go to the hospital." 

"If you're sure," said Aziraphale. 

Natalie had no idea how to ration out magical energy. On the one hand, a relaxed Crowley would open up faster. On the other, it was early yet, he was only at about five centimeters, and if they did get into trouble, Aziraphale's magic would be desperately needed to make things go smoothly at the hospital. 

Natalie drank her tea and considered. 

"Do you want to try a warm bath?", she said.

Crowley shook his head. "Want 'Ziraphale. He's all I need." 

The non-angels stood and rocked. Sometimes Crowley babbled. "You are my comfort," he said. "You and Miran and this baby."

"I love you too, darling," replied Aziraphale. "And I'm so proud of you for doing this again."

"I'm not scared anymore," said the demon. "I can feel you taking care of me. And I can feel him too. He's so lovely, so much like you. I bet he'll love cream sauces and gravlax and bonbons and all that." Crowley lifted his drooping head and gave his mate a vague and loopy smile. 

"It's what you deserve," he continued. "Someone who can share what you enjoy. Wish it were me." He sighed and smiled again. "I don't know if I deserve you Angel. Just got lucky. Right place. Right time." He made the horse noise again, blowing air out past his lips. Then he groaned a deep and lowing groan that rose and fell for a minute. 

"Wish you could rub my back," he said. "Liked it when you did that."

"I'm sure we can make that work," said Natalie. And she figured out a way to make it happen for him.

The chair was barely wide enough. They pushed it up against the bookshelves so that it wouldn't tip. Aziraphale helped him out of his dressing gown. He kneeled in the chair backwards, wedging his knees into the sides of the chair's arms and leaning with his arms over the backrest and his enormous belly hanging down. Sometimes he stood on his knees, and other times he rocked back and practically sat on his heels, pushing his bottom backwards and stretching his arms up to grip the top of the backrest. 

An enormous bottle of scented massage oil was already waiting on a shelf. Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and oiled his hands and ran them up and over his partner's body, starting at the shoulders and smoothing down his back in long strokes. During contractions, he pushed his hands into Crowley's lower back, and between them he smoothed his oiled hands over belly and thighs, sometimes laying his cheek on his partner's back, whispering things in the private language that they shared. 

As the contractions built in their intensity, Aziraphale took off his shirt and vest so that he could drag the full length of his arms up and down his partner's back. He pressed his bare chest up against the side of his partner's ribs as he circled his arms over and under to enclose belly and back. He laid his cheek in the concavity of his partner's neck as he whispered into his ear. Crowley would nod and would duck his head to wipe the sweat off his nose and cheeks by rubbing his face on the floral print furniture cover. 

And then, without Natalie even having to suggest it, Aziraphale brought his hands lower, massaging the great muscles of his partner's rear, digging his thumbs and fingers in deeply as Crowley rocked his hips in circles. Aziraphale's strong hands shook the large muscles of his partner's bottom with rapid back and forth motions like an earthquake and then he slid his hands lower, to backs of thighs, and he gripped them both and shook them from side to side. And, through the contractions, Crowley pushed into the intense massage, making deep low rumbling noises in his throat, a sound that was at the balance point between pain and pleasure, a sound that seemed to be the exact frequency of the quaking of his muscles, so that sound and movement seemed to be all one thing and they were vibrating the baby down. 

It was the right thing to do. It was something that Natalie had recommended, one of dozens and dozens of pain relief techniques in the videos and books that Aziraphale had consumed over the past months.

Normally, Natalie would be touching her patient, helping with the massage. Normally, she and her assistants would be the ones shaking the muscles, saying the encouraging words, while the partner mopped a brow or held a hand or rubbed a shoulder. Normally, especially if the client was a woman, there would be a special intimacy between the women in the room, some deep connection between womb-bearers that could, for the moment, be as strong as the connection to husband or lover.

Not so here. Crowley and Aziraphale were special creatures, the only adults of their kind on Earth, and no bond could be deeper than theirs. And so, having spent months teaching Aziraphale how to support his mate in labor, the best thing for Natalie to do on this night was to hang back. Natalie sat on the sofa and she kept the time and she watched for trouble and made occasional suggestions. She kept the lights low and the music low and all her supplies at the ready, and, when she moved, she was quiet and slow. Occasionally, she brought cold tea over for Crowley to sip. Sometimes she listened for the baby's heart or checked with her portable ultrasound. But, mostly, she sat in silence and breathed in a slow rhythm to set the tempo for the room. Natalie said less than three dozen words in the entire hour and a half that Crowley went from five centimeters to seven. 

"Good," said Natalie, after she had checked. "Both of you are doing wonderfully. I want you both to keep doing exactly what you are doing. That's the way we open up."

And Crowley nodded and he moaned like a cow, his voice deep and droning, just like he should. 


	8. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley overcomes his fears and births a beautiful winged child.

While Aziraphale managed his mate's pain with massage, Natalie went to the kitchen and used a pair of kitchen tongs to fish a dozen flannels out of the nearly boiling water, and put them into the pot of just-above-body-temperature water. She carried the whole pot on over to the parlor and set it down on a sterile pad on the floor on the side of the chair and half-underneath the back rest. That would keep it convenient, but not directly in the view of the patient or his partner. Less clutter was better. She wrapped a bunch of clean dry towels around the pot to warm the towels and to insulate the pot. She kept the lid on to help keep the heat in. She wasn't sure if the pot would magically keep its temperature now that it was out of the kitchen. 

There were a lot of other things to bring over: metal bowls and large absorbent pads and gloves and all the rest. She tucked them under the chair and laid a sterile cloth over some of them. She tucked two lidded bins with footpedals (one lined with a thick biohazard bag) in an out of the way corner. 

Natalie continuously checked on her patient as she set things up for the birth. Crowley was still kneeling on the chair, leaning on the backrest with his arms. Aziraphale was behind him, sometimes pressed completely up against him, his belly to Crowley's back, arms wrapped around, and hands working oil into front of belly and fronts of thighs and sometimes standing further away, legs spread wide to brace himself so that he could dig his fists and fingers deeply into Crowley's back and buttocks. 

Natalie was silent. She kept track of the time. She drank carefully metered amounts of tea. She didn't interfere. Aziraphale and Crowley were managing very well. Crowley communicated his needs to his mate with tiny little noises which might have been words or half words, and Aziraphale adjusted his position or increased or decreased the pressure as needed. Whenever he was pleased with what his mate was doing, Crowley would moan: low warbling sounds that went on and on, unselfconscious utterances, sounds from his own private world, a world that was filled with intense sensations. 

When all the supplies were arranged, Natalie made to head back to her seat on the sofa. Crowley made a little distress noise as she moved away. So she returned with her thermos and pulled the ottoman over and sat by his side and talked quietly and breathed very slowly and stayed with him through the next contraction and the next and the next and the next. He let her know that he wanted her there by making small nods when she spoke and by matching his breathing to hers from time to time. 

It was past four in the morning when he first asked for her help. Eyes closed, he started tugging at the chain of his pendant. It was clear what he wanted. Natalie had been especially careful to keep her hands off of his body as much as possible, but Aziraphale's hands were covered in oil, so it would have to be her.

"Do you want me to take your seahorse off?", Natalie asked.

He nodded, and he exhaled as her hands slid up the chain towards the clasp at the back of his neck. His skin was warm. She could feel the little hairs on the skin on the back of his neck. They were damp. He was breathing with great concentration. She got the fiddly little clasp open and slid the chain away and he nodded again, his eyes still closed. He didn't seem to want to spare the words. 

Natalie clasped the ends of the chain back together and found a safe place to put the silver pendant with the rainbow of sapphire stones. 

"I'm putting your seahorse up on the shelf right in front of you," said Natalie. 

"Kssss," replied Crowley. And he exhaled. Then he started to moan with the next contraction.

Five minutes later, he needed her again. A contraction came, and instead of lowing or moaning into his exhalations, Crowley whimpered. Aziraphale dug his hands in to work the spots that had brought relief before, but it didn't work. Crowley stiffened and bared his teeth. He made repetitive noises of distress that sounded like a car engine failing to turn over on a cold morning. 

"Crowley," she said. "This is Natalie. We are safe. Your body is doing all the right things. I need you to give me those nice barnyard animal noises."

He nodded. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, blowing the air past loose lips. Then he started to groan, and his groan started to rise in pitch. It was a high pitched noise of fearful anticipation that was only making the pain worse. 

"Pressssure," he said. He blew out some air to emphasize his point. 

"You can feel baby descending," said Natalie. 

Crowley nodded. His eyes were wide. He took a few more breaths. "Is huge," he said. His eyebrows flickered. He panted again, closed his eyes, and rested for a few minutes. Then he opened his eyes and found Natalie's face. "What if I'm not . . . ?", he took another breath. "I think that-- Um . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . not much rest time . . ." He took a very deliberate breath and then blew the air out. 

Through the contraction, Crowley seemed to be barely holding on. Aziraphale was laying kisses on the knobs of his spine and crooning in the other language. And Crowley kept breathing, too fast, too hard, and with less and less control.

Natalie watched her patient carefully as the contraction ended. Crowley buried his face into the backrest of the chair. 

Then he started speaking. But not really speaking, just making fearful chains of repetitive disjointed words.

"No. Can't, can't, can't, can't" he said. "Oh no no no no no no no."

"Darling," said Aziraphale. "Tell me what's wrong." Then he said something in the other language. And then: "But I can't tell what it is."

Aziraphale didn't understand what was going on, but Natalie did. She had dealt with birth traumatized parents before, and she knew better than to let a panic attack spiral out of control. She'd planned for this hours ago. She plucked a particular photograph off of the shelf, took a slow deep breath, and spoke to her laboring parent. 

"Crowley," she said. "I need you to open your eyes and look at the thing that I'm holding in my hands."

He whimpered. "Can't can't can't."

She took a deep calming breath and blew it out. And he did too. One good breath. 

"Before I can help you," she said. "I need you to do this. Come on. Eyes open and look this way."

He opened his eyes. The eyelids were only half open. Pupils were dilated, but even. The eyes tracked their way to where she was and the slits narrowed as they focused on the photo.

"I need you to describe what you see," she said. And she took another slow deep breath. 

He was silent. Still panting a bit. 

"Who is this beautiful little boy with the curly hair?", she prompted.

" 'Sss Miran," he replied.

"Good," she said. "What else is in the picture?" 

" 'Ssss from . . . other day," he said. "Usss." And indeed it was the entire little family of un-angels leaning against the Bentley after the recital. 

"Good job," said Natalie. "Can you tell me what Miran is wearing in the picture?"

"Rainbow . . . sss favorite . . ."

"The rainbow shirt is Miran's favorite?", said Natalie.

Crowley nodded. "Picked it . . . himssself."

"Did he now?"

"Took him . . . Portobello Road . . . shopping . . . get baby things . . . Zira had to. . . little giraffe romper . . ."

"And you let big brother pick something special for himself?"

Crowley nodded. He was oriented. He was calm. 

"How sweet," she said. 

She set the photo onto the bookshelf in front of him. 

"Now," she said. "I need you to tell me what is happening in your body right now."

"Presssure," he said.

"Where is the pressure?"

He took one hand off the back of the chair and laid it right where belly met pelvis. 

"You can feel the baby and it's a lot of pressure."

He nodded emphatically. 

She laid her hands on his belly and felt baby low and engaged in the pelvis. Just as he should be. 

"Do you have any other pain right now?", asked Natalie.

"Hipsssss . . . 'n back," he said. He turned his face toward her. His eyes were brimming with tears and terror. "Isss ssstuck," he said. 

"Okay," said Natalie. "Are you afraid that baby is stuck?"

He sucked in his lips until they disappeared. He gave a small sad nod. 

"Okay," said Natalie. "I hear you. You're worried that baby isn't going to be able to fit through your bones. What if I check one last time, just to see what is happening?"

He hung his head. ". . . go to . . . hosssspital," he said. "Poor Miran."

"Not necessarily," said Natalie. "This is what we're going to do. We are going to get through this next contraction, and Aziraphale is going to keep you very comfortable."

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "The plan was actually to be conservative and to gradually--"

"Very Comfortable," said Natalie. "And then after it's done I'm going to check. And then we will decide what to do from there. Okay? We are going to get the information and then we will make the right decision to keep you and baby safe."

Aziraphale looked conflicted. Natalie looked him in the eyes and she let her mind fill with clear thoughts. 'This is a panic attack,' she thought. 'If we let him spiral out of control his body might halt labor. Chances are very good that there is no obstruction. We just need to keep him calm.' 

And Aziraphale's face changed not a whit. He wasn't picking up her thoughts. He wasn't reading her mind. She couldn't read his, but she could read his face and it was full of calculations and hesitations. If she had to guess, he was thinking that if something was very wrong and he had to go into the hospital with Crowley, he ought to hoard his energy so that he would be able maintain control over all the doctors and nurses. At this moment, it seemed, her telepathy was better than his. She was just going to have to say the words out loud. 

"Aziraphale," she said. "I need you trust me. We aren't at all likely to go to the hospital. And he just needs to be very comfortable for the next five minutes. It will make all the difference." 

She stared him down. She repeated her clear thoughts in case he was listening to them this time. He was standing behind his his mate, pressed up against him, the fronts of his fine trousers hopelessly ruined with oil, one arm snaked around his mate's belly and the other resting on the lower back, possessive, defensive. His nostrils flared. He knitted his brow. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. 

Crowley took a small hitching breath and started to moan. And Natalie mouthed: 'Do it!'

Aziraphale already had one arm under his mate, just above the belly. He hitched that arm around a little tighter, and he raised his other hand and let it hover over the small of his partner's back. He put a knee up onto the chair between his mate's legs and pressed it into the inside of a hip. He closed his eyes and fluttered his fingers, then he tightened his grip as Crowley's arms buckled. 

Crowley's upper body slid down the backrest of the chair. He wound up with his bottom in the air and his head wedged up against it sideways, his shoulders pressed into the cushion. His arms were limp and useless; His upper body was entirely held up by the friction between his body and the chair. His jaw fell open, and he made a noise of profound relief. 

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah", said Crowley. He sounded like a very unselfconscious person slipping into a hot tub after a long day of manual labor. His high wordless song of pleasure went on and on. 

The old ex-angel was half stooped over, holding almost all of his mate's weight with oiled arms and hands. The muscles of Aziraphale's chest and arms were straining, but they held the weight and didn't slip. Aziraphale's face was against Crowley's back, his teeth were bared, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing very slowly, with great concentration, as if he was holding the entire world together with his will. 

Before the contraction was even done, Natalie already had her gloves on and was bending down behind him. Aziraphale maneuvered himself off to the side, still bent over double and still supporting half of Crowley's weight. Natalie could feel, as she eased her fingers inside, that all of Crowley's internal muscles were relaxed. It made it easy for her to quickly take the measure of everything and then extract her fingers. 

"Oh!", Aziraphale said. He looked down at her hands. His eyes were wide. Natalie looked at her blue gloves. They were smeared with streaks of blood.

"Normal," she told him. She took off the gloves, pulling them inside out and tucking them inside each other in a neat little bundle before tossing them into the bin. 

"Right," said Aziraphale. His eyebrows went up slightly.

"Everything is perfect," she said. She smiled at him. Let her face communicate her confidence, even if he wouldn't or couldn't hear her thoughts. "Plenty of room. Almost time to push. He can do this. We are going to have this baby here at home."

Aziraphale searched her face and then nodded. 

"Okay darling," said Aziraphale. "Time to hold yourself up again, there we go." And he slowly loosened his grip. 

Then Crowley spoke. 

"Angel," he said. "Ssssso good . . . felt . . . floating . . . probably shouldn't . . . got to save . . . hossspital . . . try . . . warm bath . . . wait . . . okay . . . love . . ."

Natalie took up her position at the side of the chair, "Crowley," she said, "I've checked, and you are plenty big enough for this baby."

"No," he replied. "Ssssstuck . . . can feel . . . "

Aziraphale bent over his mate again was tracing his fingers slowly over his mate's belly. He tilted his head from side to side, his eyes were moving around as if he was reading something in the air. 

"There's a lot of pressure," said Natalie. "And that's scary, because Miran got stuck and it feels a little bit like that. But this is a new birth. This is your second child. This baby is Tara. And everything is going well."

"No," he said. "Can't. Isss too big." He turned his face away from her. 

Natalie bent over the chair. She put her face right next to his ear and she spoke clear and low. 

"I have delivered nearly fourteen hundred babies," she said. "Do you believe me?"

He nodded. 

"Good," she said. "It is my professional opinion that your pelvis is huge and wide and more than big enough to birth this baby."

He huffed. "Four thousssand four hundred gramsss," he said. 

Aziraphale's hands were moving over hips and thighs and genitals. The old un-angel was nodding slowly as his fingers traced his mate's body. 

"I wouldn't lie to you," said Natalie. "You are big enough. Can you trust me on this?"

"Sssscared," he said. "Going to hurt." And Aziraphale made a hushing noise, and ran soothing hands along his flanks. 

"It might," said Natalie. "But your body can do this. You are strong enough and you are big enough."

He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then he opened them and searched her face.

"Tub?", he asked. "Warm tub?" 

Sadly, it was too late to use the beautifully deep Victorian tub. He was too close to the end, and a winged baby wasn't a safe candidate for a water birth. 

"Your body is moving things along so quickly," said Natalie. "That I'm afraid we don't have time for the tub anymore." 

He growled. 

Then Aziraphale spoke up. 

"I am going to help you," he said. "And I'm far better at relieving pain than a warm bath. We're going to birth this baby together, and I'm going to take care of you all the way to the end." 

"We are on our way," said Natalie. "He'll probably be feeling the urge to push soon. Now is a fine time to start the perineal massage and the warm cloths." Aziraphale nodded. They'd talked through this part of the plan. With the strength of Crowley's body, he might push the baby out very quickly. Baby was big. And that meant a risk of tears. 

Natalie pulled a small table over next to Aziraphale. She placed a plastic bin liner on it, and, on top of that, a small bowl full of warm water and two small warm cloths. "You can use them to clean your hands, or for the warmth, to help stretch his skin," she said. Then she handed him a bottle of pure olive oil. "This is the stuff."

"Right," he said. He nodded very slowly. "Gentle stretching, and warmth."

The next minutes were very normal. During contractions, Aziraphale ran his flutttering fingers in circles around Crowley's belly and in between contractions he faithfully took care of the intimate massage. Natalie's primary job was to keep him well supplied with warm cloths to press around the vaginal opening. Crowley was so calm during contractions that Natalie sometimes had to remind him to breathe properly. But, with such a big baby, she was happy for his body to open slowly. 

Crowley moaned and rocked, lost in sensation somewhere between the intense pressure of the baby pressing on his insides and the gentleness of his partner's touch. Since he was the patient's lover, Aziraphale's fingers could roam wherever they might bring pleasure, and Natalie made a point of giving as much privacy as possible to her hedonistic non-angels. 

The rhythm continued for thirty minutes, long contractions with magical pain relief alternating with massage and warm compresses. Aziraphale adopted a low soothing droning voice. He spoke in their private language as his oiled fingers roamed intimately over his lover's body. Sometimes he sang, and, when he did, Crowley's moans of pleasure-pain would follow the shape of it, a wordless approximation of the song. 

None of what they were doing surprised Natalie. In her very long career, Natalie had seen a handful people who could turn birth into an ecstatic experience. Most of them had been deeply religious or very sexually uninhibited. All of them had deeply trusted their partners. 

Just as dawn was breaking, and the light that filtered through the closed curtains was exceeding the dim light from the lamps, a diffficult contraction arose. Aziraphale bent over his mate and laid one hand on his back, but Crowley's droning turned into words, some three syllable phrase or word repeated again and again, and then his arms suddenly stiffened, and he surged up to stand on his knees, arms braced and straight, head thrown back, and he wailed. 

A great shadow appeared and Natalie was driven across the room by an explosive force, like a great black airbag deploying. Except that instead of an airbag, it was an enormous slab of cedar and musk scented feathers. She nearly fell over, but she managed to stumble away from the spreading wings and ended up pasted to the wall, half against the bookshelves, with one hand thrown up to protect her face from the feathers. 

The parlor room had seemed a decent size when it wasn't full of wings, but now the entire room was filled with two great walls of feathers. Crowley stood on shaking knees on the chair, supporting himself with stiff arms braced against the back of the chair. 

Crowley wailed again and drew his enormous wings all the way back up to the ceiling, and the sound that they made when they passed through the tiny room was like ten umbrellas opening at once. A dozen small tchotchkies were sucked off of shelves by the vacuum they made when they pulled back.

Natalie ran to her patient's side. Under her feet, something crunched. Aziraphale reached Crowley before she did. He had ducked quite gracefully as Crowley's wings unfurled. Perhaps he had had a premonition that they were coming, or perhaps Crowley's words had been a warning. At any rate, wings were clearly something he was practiced at dealing with, and he managed to slip himself between them from the rear, pressing himself against his mate's back, somehow sliding his arms under the wings and up along the sides of ribs so that his hands cradled Crowley's chest and held him. Aziraphale buried his face in the strip of human-like skin between the wings, speaking words alternately in English and in the other language. 

"Darling, don't flail, you'll hurt yourself," said Aziraphale. 

"Pressssssure," he said. ". . . sssso much . . . Want it OUT!"

And Aziraphale slid his hands from his mate's chest until they rested on the bottom side of Crowley's belly. Then he fluttered his fingers. The wavery wailing stopped; Crowley's moans turned into a long moaned exhalation of relief and then quiet sobs. 

The contraction came to an end. Wings slowly pulled downward and folded themselves until they surrounded Aziraphale on both sides, two trembling masses of susurating black feathers. Broken bits of feathers, some as long as a hand, drifted down through the air. More broken feathers hung off the wings. Even folded, the wings still stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. 

"Is he okay?", asked Natalie. She didn't see any blood, but what did she know about wings? He was holding them symmetrically, so that was probably good. The fact that they were trembling was good: injured limbs were generally held still. 

Aziraphale ran his hands over one wing-- from base at the shoulder blades, up to the bend at the top and then down the whole length of it to where it reached nearly to the floor. His hands were confident and practiced. They skimmed through all the feathers and smoothed them down. He did the same for the other wing, and then he slipped his hands under them, around sides of belly, and touched and fluttered his fingers again and Crowley tilted his body forward and rocked backwards and grunted with another contraction. 

"All fine," said Aziraphale. "Just a few broken feathers."

"He's pushing," said Natalie. "I need to be there to catch." 

The delicate baby wings. They were the concern. They couldn't be allowed to get caught up on their way out. This was, above all other reasons, why she was needed for this special birth. 

This contraction didn't turn out to be the final one, and, almost soon as she'd gotten into position, kneeling on the floor on a triple layer of towels (too many broken objects on the floor, and some of them porcelain), Crowley wanted to move. 

He wanted to crouch with his feet underneath him. He communicated this by rolling his bottom from side to side and trying to pick up his knees and, perhaps, by some half-formed word that he said to Aziraphale in their other language, or perhaps by pure telepathy. 

At any rate, Aziraphale told Natalie what Crowley wanted, and, together, they supported his weight while he pulled his legs out from where they were wedged, between seat cushion and arms of chair, and they helped him to get his feet under him on the chair. They moved him toward the middle of the seat, so that he wouldn't tip the chair over, and he crouched low, leaning forward, hands braced on the top of the back of the chair.

When the next contraction came, he tucked his chin to his chest, pulled his wings tightly to his back and pushed. And baby's head crowned. This time, between contractions, Natalie's hands joined Aziraphale's and they both held warmed cloths around the entire vaginal opening, supporting the weight of the baby, warming the skin for the last time, as they filled the air with their exhortions in two languages. 

"Almost there," said Natalie, "Keep breathing. We're going to try for three good long pushes with the next contraction." 

And then Crowley made a low roar and swept his wings back and up to the ceiling and then he drew them down and pushed the head forward by a centimeter. Baby slipped back, and he drew a deep breath and tried again. Aziraphale said something in their language, and Crowley responded with "AHHHHHHHHH!" And he pushed the rest of baby's head out in one great shove. 

There was no tearing at all. 

"We have the head," said Natalie. "Take a break, Crowley. Deep breaths. We have baby's head."

Crowley was panting. He said something in his language and he took one hand off the back of the chair and reached it down and between his legs. Aziraphale guided his hand to the top of baby's head. And Crowley said something in a voice that was so choked with tears that Natalie couldn't even tell whether the words had been in English or not. 

Aziraphale started to cry. He twined his hand in Crowley's and together they traced their fingers over the downy hair. 

"Okay," said Natalie, "Now I need you both to take your hands away so that I can keep baby safe."

Natalie nudged Aziraphale a little to the side and got ready for the complicated bit. This next minute would be where she really earned her keep. Two shoulders, two wings. Those wings would want to get hung up on their way out. Wing bones were so thin and fragile. 

She reached her fingers in, wiggling them past the ring of bone. Before the next contraction could even rise, Natalie had pulled the top edges of both wings out. And then with the next push, the baby rotated and the first shoulder came free. One of Aziraphale's hands was right below hers, and the other was on Crowley's back. Aziraphale's eyes and mouth were wide and he was babbling.

"Wow," he said. "Oh wow! Darling, you're doing it! I can see his face and it is so beautiful."

"Good long push," said Natalie. "Breathe down. Exhale into it."

And Crowley said: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" 

And there was the second shoulder and then a whole baby, long and white, with what might be white or light grey wings. 

It was 5:06 AM on the summer solstice. The sun had been up for a quarter of an hour, and an angel was born.

(The child was an angel, Natalie decided, an innocent, even if they were destined to ask too many questions and become an apostate like the rest of their family.)

"He's here!", cried Aziraphale. 

Natalie wiped the baby with a towel, and baby said "Meh!" and turned a bit pinker and frowned and drew two long legs up to their long and lean belly. Natalie checked more closely. This child, who in last month's ultrasounds had appeared to be just as intersex as Miran, was now most definitely possessed of a vulva. Normally, Natalie would have declared the baby to be a girl, but, in this family, genitals weren't considered to be a reliable gender signifier, so she simply said: 

"A beautiful and healthy baby! Well done Crowley!" 

"Ohhhhhhh," he replied. "Ohhhhhhhhh!" And he fell onto his arms on the back of the chair.

"Beautiful, so beautiful," Aziraphale said. "He's perfect. You've done it, my love." 

"Meh!", replied the baby. "Eh!" 

"Need to see my baby," said Crowley, and he tried to turn around, but his wings and his shaking legs and the umbilical cord and the constraints of the chair all combined to defeat him. 

"It's going to be a minute Crowley. We'll get this beautiful baby into your arms as soon as we can." 

"What's he look like?", said Crowley. "Eyes? Wings?"

"Tara has your build to be sure," said Aziraphale. "And he-- oh. Is that a?"

"Tara might be a girl," said Natalie. "If we're going by external appearances."

"Do you want to cut the cord?", asked Natalie. Aziraphale shook his head. 

"I'd like to hold him. Her. Them," said Aziraphale.

"Eh," said Tara. "Ehhhhhh!!!"

Natalie grabbed a fresh warm towel and wrapped Tara with it and put them into Aziraphale's arms. She clamped and cut the cord while Aziraphale inspected the baby minutely.

"Everything is perfect and accounted for," said Aziraphale, "Tara has a very long body. And a lovely little face, and their eyes are, um, not open, so we'll have to wait on that. Wings are quite long, very proportional, and, um, damp, but definitely lighter than Miran's were. Hard to tell what the final color will be. And here are your eyes! Oh, how lovely they are. Crowley! Their pupils are shaped like yours but the irises are blue. Perfect. And aren't you ever so cuddly? Yes. And we're free at last. Let's go round these beautiful black wings and meet your daddy. He worked so hard to get you out here into the world. And here is Daddy!" 

"All right," said Crowley. "Give him here." He was crouching on the seat of chair, his upper body leaning against the reclined back, his face sideways and crushed against the cloth. 

"Wait," said Natalie. "Lets get you a little more stable before we have you holding baby." 

Natalie looked around at the room. It looked like a windstorm had come through. The floor was covered in broken shards of pottery, broken feathers, framed photographs, dried macaroni noodles, and discarded flannels. Sitting him on the floor was out of the question. They'd have to turn him around in the chair. Could he lean against his own wings? She really required Aziraphale's expertise here. 

Tara was temporarily placed in a little basket, and bolsters and pillows were arranged and the ottoman brought round to the foot of the chair. One winged man-like creature was propped up in a seated position with lots of cushioning behind his lower back and neck and also under his bottom so that he could lounge without having to lean on his wings or rest any weight on his sore vulva. They arranged him spreadlegged, with his feet on the ottoman, and layers of absorbant material underneath his bottom. Natalie covered him with an old blanket and Aziraphale placed the infant in his arms. 

Crowley looked blissful. The apples of his cheeks were round and high. His eyes were half closed and he wore a beatific smile as he beheld the baby in his arms. 

"Welcome Tara," he said. "My starlight. Look at you. So pale. Your Papa's coloring for sure. So beau-- Oh. That's unexpected. Are you planning to be a girl? Full of surprises aren't you? Miran is going to be very disappointed. He wants you to be a boy." 

Aziraphale looked at Natalie. "Last month, didn't you say--?"

"Baby did look intersex in the ultrasounds," said Natalie. "Perhaps baby can change their body?"

"Possibly," said Aziraphale. He nodded. In his bizarre world a shapeshifting infant was more likely than a mistaken midwife. "This may add an additional level of challenge to parenting." 

Aziraphale, by this time, had managed to balance himself on the upholstered arm of the (miraculously strong) hundred and fifty year old chair. Crowley was propped up in a sea of pillows and holding the baby wrapped in a little yellow striped blanket. Aziraphale leaned over them both, resting his head on top of Crowley's, and wrapping one arm around the back of his partner's shoulders. The fingers of his other hand slowly traced the contours of baby's ear. Aziraphale was still shirtless, but his mate wrapped one great black wing around him like a blanket. All three of the angel-like creatures were silent and content. The disco music was still playing at a low volume in the room. It made for a strange counterpoint. 

"This one is very quiet," said Aziraphale. "Just looking around." 

"Gotta watch out for the quiet ones, Angel," said Crowley. He yawned. "They cause all the trouble."

A beam of sunlight had made its way between the curtains and struck the wall above the sofa, infusing the room with morning light. 

"Do you really think they'll prefer to be treated as a girl?", said Aziraphale. "All things considered?"

"Hard to know," said Crowley. "Let me sleep on it. Talk again later." He closed his eyes. Then he squirmed and grunted with irritation. 

"No sleep yet," said Natalie. "You still have work to do."

Crowley passed the placenta with no trouble. Then Natalie tidied him up. He didn't seem to mind her touching him to clean him. He only had eyes for his child. 

When she was done, Natalie stood up and looked down on her patient and his family. The whole scene had a strange quality: alien and yet serene. Her patient quietly folded one soft black wing around most of his body. From her angle, he and the child were almost completely covered by it. It was like a personal blanket. And his other wing was extended around his mate, a protective canopy, soft and black.

Natalie started to tidy the room. She picked up photographs and a broken piece of dried macaroni artwork. She found the seahorse pendant on the floor next to the chair and Aziraphale took it and fastened it back around Crowley's neck. 

"Would you like me to take a photo?", asked Natalie. 

They did. So she took a few. 

Then, while the family rested, Natalie swept the floor three times to be sure to get up all the porcelain shards. Then she tidied her things. As she was moving the birthing ball, she accidentally brushed the curtains open. The room suddenly got very bright, and Crowley startled. 

"Miran," he said. "We need to wake him. What time is it?"

"It's just after six now," said Natalie.

"Well," said Aziraphale. "I wasn't planning to allow him to wake till at least seven. I'd prefer to get you completely healed and dressed before we bring him upstairs. And then we'll need to make arrangements for where he's going to spend the day. Heather is very enthusiastic about taking him, but, honestly, I think Aadi is our best choice."

Crowley yawned. "No rest for the wicked," he said. 


	9. Colorful Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miran meets his sibling. Crowley tries very hard to catch up on his rest. Butterflies find that their butterfly friends will always be there for them. But can un-angels ever truly share their joy and troubles with humans, or will they be forever misunderstood?

In the parlor, a person with very large black wings, who was not at all an angel, was cuddled up in a chair with his wings wrapped around himself like a sort of one-person privacy tent. His partner, who very likely had invisible wings of his own, was right now kneeling between his legs, half hidden in the black feathers, and, presumably, doing some kind of healing magic. Luckily for Crowley, winged anti-angels could completely avoid the post delivery indignities of sitz baths and incontinence pads. With just a few waves of their partner's fingers, their bodies could time travel six or eight weeks into the future. 

Actually, it seemed to take more than a wave of the fingers. Aziraphale had been working now for several minutes. Natalie had already weighed the baby and cleaned them, and cleaned them a little more. Baby didn't need a nappy, because they wouldn't make any excrement. She had run out of things to do and she was desperate to kill some time. 

Natalie didn't want to turn around yet. It wasn't just because she was afraid to catch a glimpse of something unnatural. That had already happened this morning when a very full sized set of black wings had appeared out of nowhere, shoved her across a room, and tickled her nose. Hopefully whatever was now happening behind her back was not nearly so alarming. Nevertheless, as she bounced the winged baby, Natalie stared resolutely at the objects on the bookshelf, and did her best not to think too hard about what she was hearing. 

Evidently, having one's vagina and uterus healed from childbirth felt rather pleasant. Natalie knew this because Crowley was filling the air with appreciative noises and encouraging words. She didn't exactly begrudge him some pleasant sensations after a long night of labor. But she did really wish that all of his appreciation didn't have to be in English. 

"Just a little more to the right there . . . mmmm . . . that'ssss the ssssspot . . . hmmmm . . . sssso good to me, Angel . . . oh yessss . . . what a relief . . . "

Natalie swayed from side to side with Tara on her breast and kept her eyes fixed on the shelf in front of her. Aziraphale had said, in no uncertain terms, that the honor of dressing baby Tara for the first time was to be his. And the parents didn't seem to want the baby out of their sight. So she was stuck. 

On the shelves just to her left there were a bunch of vinyl albums from bands and artists that she vaguely felt like she ought to know more about. The shelf directly in front of her was full of books with titles in Russian and some Asian languages that she couldn't recognize. And, sitting in a spot in front of the books, there was a colorful pasta-based preschool art project. 

Upon close examination, it proved to be a small butterfly made from several pieces of dried pasta all glued together. The body was a twisty piece of pasta that had been unevenly covered with red paint. The wings (mostly red with orange blotches) were made of a single piece of butterfly shaped pasta, and the antennae (one purple and one green) were short pieces of spaghetti. There was a little ten centimeter length of thin purple satin ribbon stuck to its winged back. 

Natalie realized that Aziraphale had picked up this particular pasta butterfly from off of the floor a half-hour earlier. It had been the only recognizable object among a bunch of variously sized and colored bits of broken pasta in the pile of pottery and porcelain that she'd swept up. It must have been part of a whole preschool art project. 'Life Cycle of the Butterfly' or 'Spring in the Garden' or something. Natalie tried very hard to be fascinated by that thought. 

"I'll take them now," said a voice right behind her shoulder. 

Natalie handed the baby over to their papa, and Aziraphale spirited them off to the bedroom. She turned around to see her recovering postpartum patient lying on the chair with his eyes closed and his wings flopping backwards against the bookshelves behind him. He'd pulled off the blanket and his arms and legs were spread carelessly, but that wasn't nearly as immodest as it could be. 

Because he was fully dressed. 

Crowley was wearing, or at least appeared to be wearing, a sort of body skimming knee length summer dress with medium-wide shoulder straps. It looked to be silk with a black and yellow and red print pattern. The pattern was a field of red scales outlined in black with small speckled yellow snakes in swirling shapes dancing over the top. The thin fabric left little to the imagination. It clung to the anti-angel's chest and Natalie could see it rippling over all the muscles of his unnaturally tight post-pregnancy abdomen. Then it skimmed over narrow hips and down to just above his knees. Below the hem of the dress were hairless and well muscled calves which led to matching silk slippers with yellow snakes embroidered on a field of black and red scales. 

At least he hadn't changed his genitals. That would have been entirely too creepy. 

The secret to staying sane in the un-angels' household was, of course, to continuously redefine the boundaries of what was too creepy. In the last fifteen minutes, Crowley had been completely healed from childbirth. His bones had changed shape. He'd created clothing out of the firmament. But, still, he didn't have an obvious bulge between his legs. So things were normal. Fine. 

Natalie's stomach rumbled in a helpfully distracting way. She decided that she should grab some breakfast. She picked up her last thermos of tea and took it to the kitchen. She knew which doors and drawers to open to find a plate and utensils. She selected a few sandwiches and some fruit from the icebox, and she sat down and ate and sent a text to Richard. He would get it when he woke up in an hour or so. Then she relaxed at the demons' kitchen table and caught up on the morning's news on her mobile. Considering that she had just indirectly witnessed at least three demonic miracles, she was feeling remarkably calm. The road to Hell, it seemed, was paved with tea sandwiches.

After a while, Aziraphale came out of the bedroom dressed in a fresh clean outfit and carrying little Tara in an old fashioned woven baby basket. Tara was sound asleep on their back, dressed in a one piece romper with a giraffe on it. Their downy wings made it look like they were sleeping in a pile of whitish fluff in the basket. Tara looked just like a picture of the sort that photo studios display in their front windows to entice first time parents into spending unwise amounts of money on photo shoots for their newborns. 

Aziraphale set the charming baby basket down on the table. 

"Natalie," he said. "Thank you ever so much. Last night went very well. I can't imagine how we could have managed without your help."

"It was my pleasure," she said. "Both of you worked so hard for so long to give yourselves the best possible chance. I am thrilled that it went so well for all of you."

Aziraphale smiled, a genuine smile that made his eyes seem to glitter like peaceful little pools of water on a forest floor. "I believe I have everything well in hand," he said. "Crowley is resting comfortably, and I've just finished feeding Tara for the first time."

"That's all wonderful to hear," said Natalie. 

And Natalie felt wonderful. She was standing on hilltop on a beautiful spring day, looking over a vast field of flowers. She had just found a long lost family treasure in an attic. She was eating the best chocolate she'd ever tasted. She was dancing at a dear friend's wedding on a warm summer night. She was . . . staring at Aziraphale's eyes. 

"Ahem," said the ex-angel. "Well, I shan't keep you for much longer. I'm sure you want to be getting home and catching up on your rest. If I can impose on you to watch the baby for a just a few minutes more; I do need to head downstairs to the shop to make a few telephone calls. Then I'll wake Miran. When we return, I can send you on your way." 

While the baby slept, Natalie washed and dried her dishes. She snuck into the parlor and quietly fetched a bag of toiletries and a change of clothes from her bag and then she went to the toilet to freshen up. She didn't need to, because she was only heading home, but it was still her habit to brush her teeth and wash up after overnight births. When she was younger, she sometimes went straight from a birth to the clinic. But rank had its privileges. Other than one afternoon meeting, which she could attend remotely from home, Natalie had nothing critical to do today. The secretary had delegated all her other duties. She could sleep for half of the day if she liked. And she planned to. She tiptoed back into the parlor and tucked her dirty clothes and her toiletries back into her bag. Then she heard the door of the flat open. 

A voice split the calm of the morning: "WHY DOES DADDY HAVE HIS WINGS OUT?"

Crowley grunted a little and wrapped one of his wings over the upper half of his body. Aziraphale made shushing noises and shut the parlor door, leaving Natalie inside the parlor with the sleeping postpartum anti-angel. The high pitched voice carried through the thin door and walls: 

"But wings out with a guest over is very rude behavior." 

The feather covered creature in the armchair didn't stir. Furthermore, apparently Tara had inherited their father's ability to sleep, because there was no crying coming from the kitchen. Natalie took a chance that Miran was done talking and slipped into the hall so she could watch big brother meet the new baby. 

"Hush. Quiet voice. Come on up here," Aziraphale was saying. He lifted Miran onto a kitchen chair so he could see into the basket on the table. "Here is our family's new baby. This is Tara." 

There was a long silence. Miran's eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He seemed stunned. 

"You can touch them," said Aziraphale. "Like this, nice and gentle. Never in the face." Miran reached a little hand out and petted the top of Tara's head. "That's right," said Aziraphale. "Just so. You're doing such a wonderful job. I think they like you already."

"Wow," said a reverent little voice. "Did you show him to Daddy yet?"

Natalie slipped back into the parlor. She moved all her bags and equipment right near the door. The oversized birthing ball was partially deflated, which would let her fit it through the doorway. She could use the pump to deflate it the rest of the way once she'd carried it down to the ground floor of the bookshop. She could do the same with the peanut shaped ball. Then everything would fit in the bags. When everything was staged, she opened the parlor door a crack and peeked towards the kitchen. Apparently, Aziraphale had taken Miran and Tara into the bedroom to continue their introduction. Natalie closed the parlor door quietly behind her and went to the kitchen and verified that they were in the bedroom with the door shut. She could just barely hear the murmur of their voices. 

She opened the parlor door all the way. She used a small but heavy bag as a prop for exterior door of the flat, which tended to close by itself. Very quietly, Natalie ferried all of her things through the parlor door, around the corner, through the narrow hallway, and out to the upper floor of the bookshop. When she was done, she returned to the parlor for one last look around, to make sure she hadn't left anything behind. She was considering whether she should knock on the bedroom door to say goodbye to Aziraphale and Miran when she heard a soft thump and the sound of little feet racing toward her. 

Miran suddenly appeared right in front of her. He put his finger up to his lips and walked towards the parlor's shelves on exaggerated tiptoes. He pulled a little stool out from the bottom most shelf and set it on the floor. Then he climbed on top of it and looked. And looked. And looked. His face fell. His little mouth dropped open. He pulled the little pasta butterfly off the shelf by its ribbon and ran out of the room. 

"Papa! Papa!", he said as he ran, "Where did you put my butterfly friends? All I can find is Flappy."

Natalie slipped out of the parlor, shutting the door behind her. A moment later, she was nearly knocked over by a red-faced and crying preschooler. He made for the parlor door, but Natalie stepped in front of him. 

"Shhhhh!", she said "Daddy is sleeping."

He looked up at her, his lip trembling and his eyes wet. And Natalie fell to her knees in front of him. 

"You and Daddy and Papa broke all my butterflies and put them into the bin!", he said. His face was a picture of devastation and betrayal. Natalie felt like she had been punched. In all the years she had known him, Miran had never looked at her in this way. 

"Oh no!", she cried. "That can't be!"

"Hush. Please, Merry," said Aziraphale. "Let's get away from the parlor door. Daddy is sleeping. As I've told you, it was an accident."

Miran turned to face his papa. "You weren't being careful!", he cried. 

The pasta butterflies must have been among the things that were sucked off the shelves when Crowley unfurled his wings. Natalie vaguely recalled stepping on something crunchy as she ran to Crowley's side. That must have been when the butterflies met their demise. 

"Come away from that door, Miran," said Aziraphale. "Come to Papa. Let's have a cuddle in the bedroom. Yes? It's not all that bad. There is still the red one. And that one was always your favorite."

This was the wrong thing to say. Miran burst into loud wails. In the bedroom, Tara stirred and started to cry. And in the parlor, a low voice said: 

"Urrrgh! Wasssssst happening out there?"

"Daddy's awake!", cried Miran. 

He dodged around Natalie and opened the parlor door and ran in. He leapt onto the ottoman and crawled up his father's body and under his wing and began sobbing piteously. Crowley wrapped his wings around them both and ducked his head down to murmur comforting words to his child. 

Even muffled by the feathers, his gentle voice carried through the room. "Oh Merry, my beloved. Such a big transition. It must be so hard. Daddy loves you so much. Daddy will always love you. Daddy's heart is big enough to hold you both. Daddy loves Miran. Always and forever." 

Aziraphale walked into the room holding a snuggly pile of white down against his shoulder. In his other hand, he held a little red pasta butterfly on a thin purple satin ribbon. He twisted his upper body gently back and forth in a quarter circle as he listened to the conversation that was happening in the tent of feathers.

"Tell me all about your feelings," said Crowley. "I'm listening."

There was a sound of snuffling. "I am very egregiously sad."

"And what are you sad about, sweetheart?", said Crowley.

"My butterflies!"

"Huh?", said Crowley. The feathers rustled a bit. 

"You and Papa and Nat Lee broke all my butterflies and put them in the bin!"

"We did?", said Crowley. His wings opened up to reveal a damp faced Miran pressed against his side and fisting snot-slick hands into the silk dress. Crowley's face looked a bit strained and a bit confused. He had dark circles under his eyes. He scanned Aziraphale and Natalie's faces. He tilted his head in a curious way as he looked at Natalie, and Natalie realized that he didn't fully understand his own role in the pasta butterfly tragedy. 

Natalie mouthed 'your wings', and she made a little gesture with her hands to show the rapid movement. And his eyebrows went up a bit and his mouth made a round 'Oh'. 

"We do still have the red one," said Aziraphale. He held it up. 

Miran's bottom lip started to quiver. His face turned pink. "But now," he said. "Now Flappy doesn't have any friends! He can't play Chasing Around the Garden! He's all lonely!" And he threw himself back into Crowley's arms and sobbed. 

"Aziraphale," said Crowley. "Er, uh. Did you uh . . .?" He gestured at the baby and pointed at the preschooler who was burying his face in his silk dress and twisting at the straps with his hands.

"Miran was very happy to meet Tara," said Aziraphale, "And straightaway he wanted to show them his favorite toys."

Crowley nodded. He seemed to take a deep breath, then he started rubbing circles on Miran's back. 

"I'm so very sorry for you and Flappy," said Crowley. He kissed his child on the forehead, and wrapped his arms around him. Miran's snuffles and sobs filled the air for a while. Crowley buried his nose in the auburn curls. But his eyes, Natalie noticed, were on her. He looked thoughtful and tired. 

After a while, Miran's little voice, muffled against the now damp and wrinkled silk dress, piped up: "Flappy is very angry," said Miran. "He is mad at you Daddy. Butterflies need friends for dancing and playing with or they get very sad." 

"Poor Flappy," agreed Crowley. 

"Butterflies are very very sociable," said Miran. He wriggled closer against his father's side.

"Yeah," said Crowley. "I suppose they are." He squeezed his child with his arms and wrapped a wing over the top of him. Then he stared pensively at the floor. 

"They MUST dance with their friends every day," said Miran. 

"They must?", replied Crowley. 

"Absolutely, very much," said Miran. "Dancing is their favorite."

Crowley blew out a breath. He shifted his eyes around the room until they rested on his mobile phone, tucked into a corner and turned off. He bit his lower lip. 

"But now," said Miran. "All his friends are gone and so he will never dance again and he will cry and cry and never stop crying." 

Crowley made a huffing sound that sounded halfway between determined and exhausted. "Then we'll have to think of something," he said. "Because we care about Flappy very deeply and we want him to be happy."

"I will take care of it," said Aziraphale. "You should rest today."

Crowley gave his mate an eloquent look of exhaustion and exasperation. He made a open palm gesture with his hand, and shook his head and mouthed 'How?' 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "Um. As far as the pasta butterflies are concerned. I would say that, well, strictly speaking, Flappy's companions are only discorporated. They can come back to us."

"They can?" A little hand pulled black feathers aside. And then Miran was sitting up against his dad's side. He was searching Crowley's face. "Really?", he asked. 

Crowley startled. Then he blinked a few times. "Yep," he said to his child. "Definitely. Happens all the time."

Miran wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and then looked at Aziraphale. Natalie realized that the tension that had been in the muscles of her back was starting to drain out. She had, apparently, cared an inordinate amount about the fate of the pasta butterflies. And now, though she wasn't sure how it would happen, she had a growing faith that everything would be alright.

"Oh yes," said the ex-angel. And he warmed up and started speaking more confidently. "There's a process, you see. They just need to requisition new corporations."

"Huh?", said Miran. 

"Smaller words, Angel."

"What I'm trying to say, Merry, is that the butterflies are still very much alive, but they're sort of floating around invisibly. We simply need to fashion new bodies for them, and they will return to us."

"Then they'll be okay?" Miran sat up completely, and then pressed elbows and knees into his father's ribs as he scrambled over the side of the chair and onto the floor. He ran over to his papa and looked up at him. 

"Yes indeed," said Aziraphale. He spoke with confidence, never stopping his slow twisting back and forth, and never losing his grip on the little purple ribbon that held Flappy the pasta butterfly. "We need to make fresh bodies, from some macaroni and paint, as close a match as we can to their original bodies, and then we'll just leave the new bodies out overnight, and all of Flappy's friends will inhabit them, and next day they'll be back to playing together. Just like before."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, my little love," said Aziraphale. 

A buzzer rang in the flat. 

"Can we make the bodies right now?", asked Miran. "Yellow really wants to play with Flappy."

"I'm afraid," said Aziraphale, "That the butterflies will have to wait till tomorrow for their new bodies, because today you are going to the aquarium with Aadi and Maeve and Calli." Miran jumped up into the air and squeaked with happiness. "I believe that they are here right now. So I want you to go and put on your daytime clothes. Be sure to fetch your hoodie from the wardrobe. The aquarium might be chilly."

Miran ran off toward the bedroom.

"He's just going to lose it, Aziraphale," said Crowley. "We will never see that hoodie again."

Aziraphale handed the baby over to Crowley. "You are, as always, a pessimist."

"Realist," replied Crowley, settling the baby onto his chest. He rested his nose on top of the newborn angel's head and inhaled deeply. 

"Well," said Natalie. "I think that both of you are very imaginative. I never would have thought of that new bodies thing. I think I might have been the one who stepped on Yellow the butterfly. I'm glad Miran will be okay." 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Reincarnation is easy for pasta butterflies." He smirked. "I'll order the pasta. Should be able to get it delivered by tomorrow. Is it a special kind of paint or can we just use the watercolor stuff we have?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Aziraphale. "That is what we pay the preschool for."

"I'll look it up," said Crowley. He hitched himself up a little in the chair, adjusting the baby on his chest. "Can you hand me my mobile? Thanks."

"I'm going down to let them into the shop," replied Aziraphale, as he handed over the mobile. "Please don't do anything foolish while I'm gone. And send Miran along."

The latter instruction wasn't necessary, because, a moment later Miran came running into the parlor, dressed in green shorts and a green striped T-shirt with a picture of a lion on it. He had a blue hoodie in his hand. "Goodbye Daddy, goodbye Real Baby Tara! I am going to the aquarium and I have got my Actual Money and I will bring you a present to play with for when you wake up and we will play with it together and then we will make new bodies for the butterflies and then I will show you how play checkers." And he kissed the baby on the top of the head, ran out the door of the flat, and pounded though the bookshop. 

"Miran!", said Crowley. But he had a sleeping newborn on his chest and his voice was too low to carry. "Ummm, can you just, uh, run down and tell Aziraphale that the kid took some money out of his bank?" 

"Of course," said Natalie. 

Downstairs, on the ground floor of the shop, Miran and two girls, both older than him, were already chasing each other in circles around the pillars. Their giggles echoed through the shop. 

Aziraphale was talking quietly to a short bearded fellow with caramel brown skin and thinning hair. As Natalie got close to them, she could make out bits of their murmured conversation. 

"I'd say that what you are thinking of doing is very honorable," the man was saying. "But, let's be real, you have a newborn. Consider them to be your free pass." The man's lips were barely moving, and he paused every time the children ran close by. Natalie couldn't hear Aziraphale's words, because he was facing away from her, but she heard the reply.

"Frankly, I think we have no right to make our kids into heroes," said the man. "They are innocents, and it is our job to keep them that way for as long as we safely can. You live in Soho for a reason. Find another school."

There was a pause in the conversation, so Natalie inserted herself and warned Aziraphale that his child was carrying some unknown amount of 'real money.' The ex-angel corralled his child, found the money, a tenner, crushed up and sitting on a bookshelf, and dutifully packed money, hoodie, and an entirely unnecessary snack and water bottle into a miniature backpack that was covered with a dinosaur print pattern and had little triangular spikes up the back of it. 

While Aziraphale was at work, the man introduced himself.

"Hi," he said, "I'm Aadi."

"Natalie," she said.

"Are you staying with them to help out?", he asked.

"Ah, no," said Natalie. "I'm the midwife."

The man's mouth gaped open and his face lit up. He looked her up and down as if he were memorizing her. She felt like she should twirl around to give him a better look. 

"Oh my goodness!", he said. "You're the famous midwife! I haven't even met you, but I've had your number in my mobile for the past two years. I sent Skye Kellogg and Rebecca Clelland to you three months ago. They are so happy with your clinic."

Natalie nodded. She actually couldn't remember who Skye and Rebecca were. She would probably remember them after she'd had a few hours of sleep. Her midwives were handling about three hundred patients at any given moment, and Natalie received two calls a day on cases that weren't even in her clinic. Much as she tried to remember everyone, nowadays only the most difficult cases stood out in her mind. 

"I knew you were good because Anthony raved about you," said Aadi. "Well, as much as he raves about anyone or anything. Gotta read between the lines with him. How is he?"

"Resting comfortably," said Natalie. That was her go-to phrase. It was sort of a linguistic privacy screen: vague enough to provide no information, yet always reassuring to the questioner in a way that did not invite any follow up questions. 

"Good," said Aadi. "I'm so glad. He deserved an easy time. I wish I could stay and talk, but, as you can see, I have to get these monsters out of here before they destroy something." He headed for the door, shouting: "All children who wish to see sharks and octopuses should now pick up their backpacks and follow me!" 

"Bye Papa!", said Miran. "We will send Daddy a selfie with a very big fish in it."

Aziraphale watched through the shop's front windows as the merry little group walked away up the street, the three children swirling around Aadi. The ex-angel massaged his chin and his lips with one hand. He seemed deep in thought. "Well," he said, at last, "That's one opinion." He turned around and saw Natalie there. "I'm afraid that I find that I don't want any more at the moment." And he headed upstairs. 

It was just as well. Natalie didn't have an opinion. She had spent all night deliberately not thinking about the question whether Aziraphale and Crowley should withdraw their child from the dance school to protect him from bullies (thereby letting the bullies win) or fight and potentially let Miran be emotionally damaged in the crossfire. It was questions like these that made Natalie very glad that she didn't have children. 

At any rate, if Natalie were to develop a worthwhile opinion on the subject, she wasn't going to do it this morning. Here she was, hours after sunrise, sleep deprived, hopped up on caffeine, and entirely counting on her automatic reflexes to get her safely home through London traffic. She couldn't answer a high stakes question like that. By fighting the bigots, they might be teaching Miran that morality and taking a stand were important, but possibly at the cost of permanent trauma to him. And Miran wasn't an ordinary child. He was an unnaturally long lived creature with a barely controlled ability to alter the minds of the humans around him. Any decisions about his formative experiences would be unbearably consequential. 

Yes, thought Natalie, not having children had definitely been the wiser choice for her. Even with human children, it would be hard enough to keep them entirely safe from outside abuse, considering who she was and what she believed. It was far better to be able to wholeheartedly fight every battle that came to her, without having to worry about protecting innocents from the blowback.

Natalie climbed up the stairs and brought the first round of things down. And then she went back for the second and the third. She sat down on an old sofa on the ground floor and used her battery powered air pump to suck all the air out of the birthing ball and the peanut shaped ball. She was working on packing them away when she heard the bell of the shop ringing. 

"Hello?", said a woman's voice. "Hello?"

"Should we go in?", said another woman's voice. 

"Sorry," said Natalie, coming around the corner. "Shop is closed for the day." Two light skinned women were standing in the open front door, their arms laden with gifts. Natalie recognized Ruth. Ruth was propping open the door with her foot. Hanging off of her arms were several gift bags and an enormous basket. She was holding a handful of hand-drawn pictures. In her other hand she was holding six green and yellow helium balloons accented by letter-shaped gold foil balloons that spelled out the words "IT'S A" and " _baby_ ". The words had clearly been part of two different balloon word arrangements and they'd been attached to each other with invisible tape and yellow ribbons. The second woman, who Natalie vaguely recognized as one of the dance moms from the recital, was capably juggling an oversized basket and a large box. One-handed, she shifted the box down her body, catching it on her thigh and knee and foot, before finally setting it down on the floor of the shop. 

"Nice to see you again, Ruth," said Natalie. And she introduced herself to the other woman, who was named Heather. 

"Is everything okay?", asked Ruth. "Crowley texted to say that the baby was born, but he didn't say the sex or weight or anything. Is, um . . . Is the baby healthy? Is everyone alright?"

"Is the baby another . . . ?", asked Heather. And she let the question remain unasked. 

There was a fine line to tread here. Natalie certainly wasn't going to take away the family's privacy. But there was no need for these kind people to worry.

"Baby and father are both doing just fine," said Natalie. "They're resting now. I think that the couple are going to make the announcement of the gender and all that once they're feeling more put together."

"They're really okay?", said Ruth. 

Natalie nodded, and Ruth exhaled. She came into the shop all the way and let the door shut behind her. Then she tied the balloons to the handle of the smaller basket. 

"I was worried," said Ruth. "All this stress with the school. And to find out he was actually already in labor yesterday evening and all that time that he was--"

"Raging," said Heather. "And nobody blames him. Nobody who matters, anyway. Tiffany and Emily were attacking his child. He had a right to be angry and they deserved everything he gave them."

"And if he can fight like that when he's in labor," said Ruth, "I'd hate to see what happens to someone who crosses him when he's actually ready for them."

"He's normally so quiet," said Heather. "I didn't know he had it in him."

"You have to watch for the quiet ones," said Ruth. Then she gestured at the boxes and bags and baskets. "This stuff is from all of us at the dance school."

"We want them to know they're not on their own," said Heather. "Can you tell them, please? We're writing a letter, and we have twelve families signed on so far."

"Thirteen," said Ruth. "The Barretts just confirmed that they're in too." 

The women talked over each other in their enthusiasm.

"We're a bloc now," said Heather. "And we will take our business elsewhere if the school doesn't take prompt action to protect Miran."

"We want them to write an official gender non-discrimination code of conduct for all the students and parents and teachers," said Ruth. "And make every family sign it." 

"Oh," said Natalie. This didn't seem to be something that Aziraphale and Crowley had been asked about. 

"It turns out that Miran isn't the only child who has been harassed," said Heather. "A girl left three years ago because she didn't want to dance in a dress, and the teacher wouldn't accommodate her."

"I think the point was that that Avery isn't a girl, they identify as non-binary," said Ruth. "But anyway, it's not that hard to find an alternative costume."

"Oops," said Heather. "Didn't know about the non-binary thing. Well, uh, Avery's family is also signing, even though they aren't part of the school anymore. Because it's the principle of the thing."

Outside, there was the sound of a horn. Cars had been slipping past theirs, which was pulled up to the curb on the narrow street. Now, it seemed, a lorry had arrived which was too wide to slip past. 

"Yipes!", said Ruth, "We have to go." And she darted outside. 

The horn sounded again. 

"We'll send an email about everything to Crowley," said Heather, as she fled to the car. "But he shouldn't open it until he's had his rest." 

"Tell him we said 'Congratulations!' ". Ruth was shouting through the open passenger side window. 

"And we'd love to take Miran out," said Heather, as they drove off. "Anytime!"

As the ladies had left their many packages on the floor just inside the door of the shop, Natalie moved them further in so that they were behind some bookshelves, hidden from all the windows. She verified that the sign on the door said "closed" and she locked the door. Then she took the flowers and the aggressively gender-neutral balloon bouquet upstairs to the flat. She knocked softly on the door. 

"It's me," she said. And Aziraphale opened it a handsbreath. 

"Some gifts from Heather and Ruth and some of other families from the dance school. There's more downstairs. I've put it all in your sitting area."

"How lovely," said the ex-angel. His tone of voice was just barely patient.

"I think you should know," said Natalie, as she handed over the flowers and balloons, "They've started a campaign to defend Miran and a dozen families are planning to draft a joint letter to the school. I'm sorry. I know this is hardly the time you want to be dealing with this, but I didn't want it to come as a surprise."

"We know already," said a voice from inside the flat. 

Aziraphale opened the door the rest of the way and invited Natalie to step in. She followed him into the parlor where Crowley was resting on the chair with Tara on his chest and his mobile in his hand. He thumbed at the mobile while he spoke. 

"The school is tearing itself apart," said Crowley. "It's ugly. People threatening to quit if Miran dances in boy parts and people threatening to quit if he doesn't."

"Well," said Aziraphale, "At least we do have defenders."

"Would have been nice if they'd talked to us before they spoke up on our behalf," said Crowley. "Kind of makes strategic-ness impossible at this point."

"In fairness," said Aziraphale, "Neither of us was feeling very strategic last night.

"Well," said Crowley, "Given our energy level, I say we do a strategic retreat. There's a dance school five blocks from here. They have a summer camp and I predict that there will be an open spot there for a four and a half year old boy."

"I'm not inclined to give in to bullying," said Aziraphale. "We've been with the school for nearly two years now. We've volunteered as much as anyone. Why should we go without a fight?" 

"A fight?", said Crowley. "You want to fight? When we have a winged newborn that can't go out in public without a minor miracle?" 

"Well," said Aziraphale, "I am not honestly sure how to do this, given the constraints. But if we are going to stand and fight in the future, we ought to stand firm and fight now. This is going to happen eventually no matter which school we're at."

"Yep," said Crowley. He didn't seem to mean that he agreed with anything other than the general cruel nature of humanity. 

"I don't suppose that you might be able to write something witty on that Sapp thing that will convince everyone that they're being ridiculous?", said Aziraphale.

"Honestly, Aziraphale, I just want to sleep. There's no wit left in me. I'm wrung out."

"Right," said Aziraphale. "Then I will have to handle this myself."

"If you waste all your energy today and then expect me to feed this baby on my own all night, I will be incandescently angry with you."

"None of that," said Aziraphale. "Just my own natural powers of persuasion. I will start by ringing the head teacher at the school."

"And she'll magically convince everyone not to be a bigot," said Crowley. "Excellent plan." He set the mobile down on the arm of his chair. "Take the baby," he said. "Can't carry her; wings out n' all." And he handed Tara over and pulled himself out of the chair. 

"We haven't agreed on their pronouns." 

"Eeeyeah," said Crowley. He eased his way through the doorway of parlor and shuffled down the hall sideways. The hall was too narrow for him to walk through it normally. "Talk tonight," he said. "You can tell me all about how it goes. Don't wake me for feedings. You can do them all." 

"I'll wake you at six," said Aziraphale.

Crowley waved a hand. It seemed to simultaneously be an acknowledgement and a dismissal. Then he wrestled his way through the bedroom door and pushed it shut from the inside. 

Aziraphale put the baby in their basket and carried them down to his desk on the ground floor of the shop. He came outside and stopped the traffic in the street while Natalie pulled out of the alley and up to the curb. Then he helped her load all of her bags. She double checked them all, and then wished him luck.

"I'll stop in tomorrow evening at half past six to check on all of you," said Natalie. 

"Safe home," he replied, wriggling his fingers as he waved goodbye.

  
  



	10. Crowley is Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalie learns more about who her inhuman friends really are and how their relationship works. Azriaphale and Crowley find a way to solve the dance school problem. Miran plays with his butterflies and tries to understand his world. And happily ever after happens when the family decides to just accept that today is a good day, and tomorrow's troubles can wait till tomorrow.

The night after Tara's birth, when Natalie came to the anti-angels' home, Aziraphale was in the shop, talking on the telephone, and looking irritated. As she came into the shop, he excused himself to the other person on the phone.

"My midwife has just arrived," he said. "Yes. That won't be necessary. It would inflame passions all around. Yes I'm sure. Please don't. I really must go. Yes. Goodbye."

"It's a pleasure to see you my dear," he said. He shook her hand. "I'm afraid I can't come upstairs. I need to make these telephone calls out of earshot of my family."

"How are things going at the dance school?", said Natalie. "Will you be sending Miran to dance camp?"

"Thank you for asking," he replied. "It's unclear at this stage whether we'll be able to send him. An official announcement from the school is expected on Monday. 'New policies.' None of us know anything more than that. Yet everyone believes they can influence the owner."

"Oh," said Natalie. "I suppose you can tell me all about it when I come for the one-week check up on Tuesday afternoon."

He nodded. "Yes, Tuesday." Then he thumped his desk very emphatically with one hand. "It's ridiculous," he said. "All this fuss over a four-year-old."

Natalie shook her head in sympathy. "Well," she said. "Shall I head up to see Tara and Crowley?"

"I may be able to join you later," he said. "First I need to make an urgent call to the owner of the school."

He waved her upstairs. Crowley met her at the door of the flat with Tara nestled in the crook of his arm, a fluffy little sleeping mass of contented newborn. Crowley himself didn't have his wings out anymore, though he still had the dark circles under his eyes. Regaining control of your wings might be one of the early stages of recovery from birth for angel-adjacent creatures. It was an interesting thought, and she made sure to think it very loudly, but Crowley didn't wink at her when she met his eyes. He must be too tired for their mind reading game.

Miran was playing with his dollhouse in the parlor, and he waved at Natalie and said hello, but quickly went back to playing, making the voices for all his little doll people. The dollhouse family seemed to have a new baby. The dollhouse baby was napping and the dollhouse family were shushing each other. 

Crowley and Natalie went to the bedroom. Natalie started by weighing Tara while Crowley lay on the bed. He was very still, for him. He was wearing a well fitted but sort of drab charcoal grey tracksuit, and he was just quietly watching her. 

"Four thousand three hundred and thirty nine grams," said Natalie. "So a gain of twenty-one grams in their first thirty-six hours of life. Which is a bit slower than Miran was. I'm not too worried, but I will want to stop by again early next week to check again." 

It was, of course, almost unheard of for a human baby to gain so well starting on the first day, but the safest thing when dealing with unusual families, such as families of shape-shifting angel-adjacent creatures, was to compare baby's growth with that a healthy sibling. Natalie was very good at being flexible and adapting the care to each family's unique circumstances. 

That was why she decided to offer the six week post-pregnancy internal exam today. And why she fully accepted when the shape-shifter told her that it wasn't worth it. If he could melt and reform his internal organs at will, there wasn't much use in her feeling the shape of them. 

"That sounds reasonable to me," she said. She'd already put her hands inside a demon's body and lived. She didn't really need to do it again. She rolled the baby onto their belly and slipped a soft strip of fabric up between the delicate wings and fastened the velcro near Tara's neck. It was strange how natural it seemed to have baby clothes with wing holes in the back. She handed the winged baby back to their father. 

"Are you in any pain?", she asked him. 

"Nope, just tired." He wiggled down into his pillows, snuggled Tara onto his chest and made a little sighing sound as the miniature angel adjusted their wings and settled against him. He didn't need a blanket, because the evening was warm. The little angel was curled up underneath their own wings so that only the crown of their head was visible emerging from the clouds of white fluff. Crowley slid his hands up under the wings to hold the baby in place.

"No pain for real?", she said. "Number?"

"Two," he said. "Just a little headache."

"Is sex or birth control something that we should be thinking about at this stage?"

He huffed in derision. "No."

"And how often is Tara feeding?", said Natalie. 

"Lost track," he said. "A lot, I guess." He yawned. 

"Are you able to get sleep?"

"Eh," he said. "Enough."

Natalie could have left him to sleep, but she a felt a duty to be thorough. She was leaning into her role as family physician for the un-angels. It wasn't as if they had any other medical professionals checking in on them. And poor Miran had been so upset the other day. 

"How is Miran doing?", said Natalie. "Is he adjusting?"

"He's fine," said Crowley. "At least as far as the new baby is concerned. Strangest thing helped. Heather gave him a little plastic dollhouse set-- babycare stuff-- and a little pink plastic toy baby came with it. So the dollhouse family has a new baby girl now, and so does his family." 

"So you settled on Tara's pronouns then?", said Natalie. 

"Yep," said Crowley. "She/her. We decided to take the whole vulva thing as an expression of gender preference. S'not like we can ask the kid at this stage, so we took a guess. Had to. These days if you don't make a public announcement of the gender right away, the humans are beside themselves with worry." He yawned. "Hope it was the right decision. Still wish we had had more time. With Miran we had over a year."

"But other than that, it must be nice having so many friends this time," said Natalie.

Crowley huffed in frustration. 

Natalie instantly regretted what she said. It was clearly too upsetting, though she wasn't sure why. All she could do now was to think apologetic thoughts at him and wait. For good measure, she made sure that her face looked apologetic too. To save him the trouble of reading her mind in case he wanted to save the energy. She had to make up her own politeness rules when it came to postpartum anti-angels. 

"I know you meant well," he said at last. "You want to help. You all want to help. It's to your credit, really. It's just . . . if we want your help we have to go through all the effort of contorting ourselves to fit the way you need to see us, because you can't see us the way we really are. Even if you all have good intentions, it's not always worth it on our end. It's hard is all."

Crowley rolled his head away on the pillows. Then he closed his eyes. Natalie kept her mouth shut. When he finally spoke, he didn't open his eyes.

"We're not used to living our lives at this scale," he said. "It's slow. Frustrating. Lots of constraints. Lot of fitting in. It's not forever, but . . ." He sighed. Then he shifted on the pillows and opened his eyes. 

"Anyway the gender is a big decision," he said. He looked at the little angel on his chest. "Changes how humans will treat them. Social expectations and all. Affects their whole personality. For life, maybe. And our lives are pretty long." 

"But here at home," she ventured, "You'd treat Tara the same either way."

"Obviously," said Crowley. He kissed his child on the top of the head. "The gender is just for out there." He made a vague circle in the air with his hand. 

She sort of thought she knew what he was saying, but she needed to be sure. She certainly hoped that she wasn't one of the human people that was forcing him to hide parts of himself in order to interact. 

"I'm sorry," said Natalie. "Have I been misgendering you all these years?" 

Crowley pressed his lips together. He was silent for a moment. 

"Really kind of you to ask," he said, at last. "I'm male when I'm with humans. Usually. It's just easier. Makes my life easier. I do do the whole female look sometimes. Used to need to for the job. But now I'm free, so . . ." And here, he used one arm to make an expansive gesture that sketched out the length of his body and seemed to suggest that its shape was what he'd freely chosen. 

Natalie got lost for a moment in a torrent of her own musings. What kind of job could Crowley have had that required him to reconfigure his body? The possibilities for what a near-immortal shapeshifter could do in human guise were a bit frightening. A queen, a spy, a general, an advisor to powerful people. He could have altered the course of human history hundreds of times over. Had he done this work voluntarily or had he been enslaved to more powerful angels or devils? And how was it for him now to be voluntarily helpless, caring for an infant, and slowing down to live a very ordinary human like life? 

But it was not an ordinary human life. Crowley had chosen to be uncompromising about his gender and his body, even if it marginalized him in the human world. His identity mattered to him. And that thought returned Natalie to the important matter at hand, understanding her friend's gender identity. She still wasn't quite clear on whether he wanted her to consider him to be male or non-binary. Was she supposed to use the male pronouns because she was only a human or was she close enough to him that she was allowed to use the more accurate pronouns? Or had Crowley been among humans so long that he now thought of himself as male?

Crowley cocked his head and looked at her with half lidded eyes. He shook his head slowly, and plunged forward with a sleepy and rambling explanation that didn't at all address Natalie's point of confusion. 

"It's complicated," he said. "No. It's simple. It's-- In our language there aren't even gendered pronouns. Er. Well. Technically, there actually are some gendered pronouns, but they're not used for people, they're only used for humans and animals and then . . ." 

Even if he wasn't reading her mind, or answering her real question, Crowley was still very interesting to listen to. He was saying fascinating things. Things he might not say if he weren't so tired. His sleepy ramblings were, in fact, the most fascinating conversation she'd had all month, and her life was absolutely stuffed with interesting people. 

" . . . Sounds kind of bad when I say it out loud," he said. "I mean, it actually is bad. Contempt for gendered creatures is just built in to the very structure of the language, and, um . . . " He trailed off into a yawn. Then he shook his head.

"Nope," he said. "Let's not go down any further down that road. Nothin' good down there."

"I'll plan to see you for a one week appointment on Tuesday afternoon, okay?", said Natalie. 

"Yeah," he said. He gave her a sleepy smile. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you or your family?", she said. "Anything at all?"

He blinked a few times. Wiped one eye with the back of his hand. Stroked his hand over the downy feathers of the little angel on his chest. 

"Don't," he said, at last. "It's enough. What you've already done." He sniffled, buried his face into the mass of newborn white fluff on his chest and closed his eyes. Natalie knew that he wasn't actually asleep yet, but she tiptoed away anyway. 

====================================

On Tuesday afternoon, Aziraphale looked, if anything, more haggard than he had the week before. He and Crowley and Natalie were all in the bedroom, talking in whispers. The door was shut. Miran was in the parlor, playing. Crowley was curled up on his side in the big bed and Aziraphale was perched on the dinosaur bed which was pushed right up against the big four poster. Natalie had the one-week old inhuman baby lying on her back on her fluffy white wings on the big bed. She was shining her light into Tara's small slitted eyes as she listened to her un-angel parents talk. 

"Miran has regressed," Aziraphale whispered. "Wants to sleep in our bed. As you see, we've had to push his little bed up alongside of ours, and I have to hold his hand at night. And then I awaken and find he's trying to-- well--"

"Suck the life out of you," said Crowley.

"And I'm exhausted as it is," said Aziraphale. "But if I say no, then he doesn't sleep and his anxiety wakes you and the baby. There's just no winning at all."

Natalie flexed the tiny hip joints and then tested baby's grip. She wasn't sure how to evaluate the little wings. She'd just have to assume they were fine. She could fake her way through a well-baby exam for a newborn human, but she wasn't an avian veterinarian. Best not to touch the wings at all. 

"These first few weeks with a newborn are hard on every family," said Natalie. 

Crowley grunted. " S'not the baby's fault we're all stressed," he said.

"How much does Miran know about what is going on with the dance school?", asked Natalie.

"He knows that summer camp might not happen," said Aziraphale. "But we haven't given him all the details. He doesn't realize that the trouble at the school is centered around him. I've told him that the parents are having a row about the rules for what costumes everyone is allowed to wear."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "But he can feel how upset we both are. Can't hide that from him."

"And how is Tara doing?", asked Natalie. "How often does she feed?"

"We're down to only nine or ten times a day," said Crowley. 

"She is quiet," said Aziraphale. "Easy. Which is good, because, as Crowley alluded, if she wasn't an easy baby I'm not sure how we could possibly manage."

While Natalie weighed the baby, Aziraphale told her about the latest announcement from the dance school. 

"There's going to be a non-discrimination policy. Children under age 10 can dance in the gender of their preference, as long as they are consistent. After that age, its on a 'case by case' basis. And any child who makes an untoward remark towards Miran or any other gender non-conforming child will be disciplined with a 'time-out', and on second offense their parent will be called and they'll be sent home for the day."

"That's sounds like an improvement," said Natalie. 

Crowley snorted. "Doesn't address the fundamental problem at all."

"My Dear," said Aziraphale. And that was his complete sentence. There were clearly paragraphs unsaid, and Crowley knew what they all were, because he responded to them all, point by point, his face cycling through a complicated series of expressions that included some eye rolls, huffs, and creased brows. At the conclusion of his elegant non-verbal diatribe, Crowley rolled onto his back, threw up both hands, and let them them fall onto the bed with a thump, a concluding gesture that Aziraphale accepted with a frown and a small nod. 

Natalie might have just witnessed a whole fight that happened via the magic of anti-angel telepathy, but she rather strongly suspected that the two of them were communicating via the more mundane sort of telepathy that comes from having had the same argument over and over so many times that neither party even needs to say the words aloud anymore. 

"At any rate," said Aziraphale, "Camp starts next week, and we're just going to give it a try."

"Yep," said Crowley. He nodded towards Natalie, who was just finishing dressing Tara. "So what's the baby weigh anyhow?"

"Oh!", said Aziraphale, taking the baby from Natalie. "My poor Starlight! I'd completely forgotten why we were all here. That is the hazard of being the second child, I'm afraid."

====================================

Natalie had a half day off on Thursday morning, and the un-angels had decided that they were feeling up to a visit, so she did a little online research and found a Soho bakery that was renowned for its tarts, and she bought a dozen of them in assorted flavors. Richard had sent along a wooden rattle and a little wooden tow truck set. Since she had gifts for everyone else, Natalie stopped at a florist and bought a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils for Crowley. She figured that you couldn't go wrong with daffodils. 

The tarts were a hit. Aziraphale wriggled with happiness as he tasted the different flavors. The rattle was admired and dutifully placed into a box of baby toys that awaited Tara's use. Miran liked his tow truck very much and even employed one of his reincarnated butterflies as a driver for it. As for the flowers, Crowley didn't say a word. He just took them to the sink and submerged them in water to recut the stems before he put them into a glass vase. Then he set them on the shelf underneath the kitchen window, the window that connected to his little glassed in greenhouse on the balcony. 

Aziraphale chatted amiably as he ate the tarts with tea. Crowley withdrew to the bedroom to feed the baby, and all too soon, it was time for Aziraphale to escort Miran to a lunchtime playdate. Natalie stood up to leave with him, but the ex-angel shook his head. "Stay," he said. "Crowley would love the company."

So Natalie sipped another cup of tea alone in the kitchen and then Crowley slipped out of the bedroom. He gave a little nod at the bedroom door which seemed to indicate that Tara had been successfully put to sleep in her cot. Then he sat down and poured himself a cup. 

She sipped her tea and waited. His eyes were bare. He was looking at her very intensely, his vertical pupils darting back and forth between her eyes. Finally, she broke the silence.

"If you're having problems with sex again, I'd rather you be truthful. Save us both a lot of trouble."

"I didn't lie," said Crowley. "The first time."

Natalie gave him the stink eye.

"I don't lie," he said. "I misdirect. It's artful. There's finesse."

Natalie thought that was rich, coming from a person who had pretended to be an angel for almost five years. And, as she thought that, Crowley's eyes flicked to hers and he smirked. The old anti-angel apostate creature could read minds again. That meant he was recovering from the birth. And that made her very happy. 

He heard that thought too, because he smiled at her. Then he cleared his throat. 

"Shall we then?", he said. "Clear the air and all. You know that I know that you know and blah blah blah, so one of us just says it." 

"I don't want to offend you," said Natalie. "I don't know the polite word. You should tell me how you identify yourself."

"Demon's fine," said Crowley. "Might, very technically, be something else now, having been sacked and all. But demon is close enough. S'what Aziraphale calls me, still. He's not a demon, by the way. Real angel. As advertised. Don't say it in front of Miran. Any of it. Kid doesn't know. What he is. What we are. Not sure what we'll tell him. Need a new word. Occult Entities." He rolled the words around in his mouth like he was chewing them. "Earthly Guardians." "Ungendered Human Impersonators." He rolled his eyes. "Eh-- We'll have to think of something soon. He keeps asking."

"I wouldn't have rejected you earlier," said Natalie. "If I had known." Then, very cautiously, watching him all the while, she added: "If I had been able to know." 

"You could just ask me about that directly, you know," he said. "I like questions. Big questions guy, me."

"Why should I say it out loud?". said Natalie. She crossed her arms. "You know that I wonder, and you'll answer if you want to." 

Crowley acknowledged the point with a thoughtful little pout and a flicker of an eyebrow. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "He did. We did. Stop you from figuring it out, I mean. You came close to realizing that I was a demon about ten times over the past few years. Usually I distracted you, but a couple of times, he pushed. Pushed on your thoughts."

"But you didn't," said Natalie. "You don't push things into or out of people's heads."

"Nope," said Crowley. "Not my thing. I can. I do it if I have to. But it's just as easy to persuade."

"Especially easy, since you can read minds."

"Yep," said Crowley. 

"I tried," said Natalie. "When you were laboring, I tried to tell Aziraphale something with my mind. And it didn't work."

"Don't bother," said Crowley. "He doesn't pick up on thoughts. Just feelings."

"So you read minds all the time and he doesn't?"

"Yep," said Crowley. "That's why I'm not very trusting. I know humans too well. He just wanders around in his own private world where everyone is nice to him because he expects it. He sort of nudges all of you to do what he wants, and he barely notices he's doing it unless someone tries to resist him. He doesn't even have to really push most of the time. It's all a byproduct of being near him. Most of you humans just go along, thinking his thoughts are yours and his wishes are yours. And you like it too."

Natalie wasn't sure what the expression on her face even was, but Crowley responded with a satisfied smile.

"No need to be ashamed of enjoying it. Everyone enjoys it. Being aligned with him feels so good. So safe. So right." 

Natalie needed to take a deep breath so that she wouldn't feel angry. "He's been doing it to me all this time."

Crowley shrugged. "He does it to everyone. You actually resist it better than most. Your thoughts have a lot of clarity. Lots of structure. Lots of passion. You, he has to actually work at pushing. It's good for him, keeps him in form."

"He does it to you, too," she said. It was half a question. 

Crowley nodded, gave a coy little shrug, and then pretended to be very interested in drinking his tea. That was odd. Why was he embarrassed? 

"You like it?", she said. And his face turned a little pink. 

Natalie reached a new understanding of the angel-demon relationship. Aziraphale exuded emotional heroin, and the demon was an unrepentant addict.

Crowley searched her face and looked slightly put out. He sputtered.

"It's more than just . . . It's complicated . . . I'm my own demon . . . It's a mutual . . . I like to have a challenge," he replied, raising his chin just a bit as if he dared her to contradict him. 

She did dare. 

"So you spend all your time fighting him for supremacy in your own mind? That can't be fun." 

He ducked his head and mumbled something indistinct. His face turned an even brighter shade of pink. Well. That clarified things. Every couple had their own thing, after all. As long it was consensual, it was none of her business. 

But as for her own self, Natalie did not want to be in thrall to an angel. 

"Can I ask him to stop?", she asked.

"Nope," said Crowley. "Some of it, yeah, but mostly it's how he's built. It's fundamental to him."

He took a sip of tea and then he offered some advice: "It helps if you don't look them in the eyes. Easier to resist. And always keep your mouth shut. Don't agree to anything until you've had a minute to shake them out of your head. That's my secret. I'm an expert. I live with two of them." He cocked his head and glanced toward the bedroom where the baby slept. "Maybe three of them. Not sure how that one will turn out."

This demon-person was choosing to live in a household full of beings whose emotions swamped his very sense of self. And he was happy about it. Natalie wasn't sure how she felt about that. As a fiercely independent person, the whole idea of such a complete enmeshment was anathema to her. On the other hand, her patient was clearly not being abused, he was happy, and he wasn't even a human, so this might be very normal and healthy for him. It wasn't really enslavement. Clearly Crowley had the ability to express his own preferences; He did it all the time. So his supply of addictive angelic emotional energy clearly wasn't contingent on him always acquiescing to Aziraphale. 

"It's safe you know," Crowley said. "To fall into it. He's never hurt anyone. He always leaves you better off than you started. Think about it."

Natalie huffed. She sipped her tea down to the dregs and then stared into the bottom of the cup as if she knew how to read the patterns in the indistinct shapes that the brown granules made there. She realized that she'd half-suspected what Aziraphale was doing for years and she'd kept coming back anyway. All those ridiculous favors she'd done for him. The strange coincidences in her schedule that always left her free to babysit. All the times she'd agreed to do things that she wouldn't normally do. 

The problem was that she didn't feel used in the least. Helping Aziraphale made her feel happy. Because it made him happy and his feelings overrode hers, or inspired hers. It was all very confusing to think about.

To be fair, there was reciprocity in the relationship. Every time she'd helped him, a gift had come her way, whether it was theatre tickets or new equipment or a connection to a new colleague. It always worked out so well that it was easy to forget that it wasn't quite consensual. Or, maybe it was, in the global sense that she kept coming around and thereby inviting his meddling in her life. She just never got a chance to say yes or no to the details. So was that consent or not? 

Natalie got up from the table and walked over to the miniature solarium on the balcony. The door between kitchen and balcony was open so that she could stand at the threshold and look at the verdant plants. She thought about the past four years of her life. She'd gotten respect, better offices, she had a team of seventeen people working for her, she had helped train hundreds of new midwives and obstetricians. Even though her life was not completely in her own control, all of her deepest wishes had been fulfilled. Aziraphale was using her, no question about it. But he was also letting her unverbalized wishes shape the way that he repaid her. 

Things in her professional life went her way a startling percentage of the time, so much so that she'd just gotten used to it. She wasn't sure if she could bring herself to want to give it up. She tried to think back four years. Knowing then what she knew now about Aziraphale, would she still have accepted his help? 

And the answer was yes. It was always yes. Her life was entwined with the angel-demon family, and it would be forever. 

She turned around to see the man-like creature sipping his tea. The demon's back was to her but he seemed to sense that she was staring at him again, and he turned his head and gifted her with a lazy smile. He nodded.

"Right," he said. "That's settled. Good. Now lets talk about Miran."

"What about him?", she said. And she sat back down at the table. 

"You do need to watch out for Miran," said Crowley. "He isn't responsible like his papa and he pushes you a lot more than you realize. I'm going to work with him on it, but you need to set boundaries or it's going to get unsafe." 

"How? Don't look at him?", said Natalie. 

"When he's having strong emotions, absolutely. Don't look him in the eye, or you'll feel whatever he is feeling. I thought you were about to cry over those stupid pasta butterflies."

"Maybe I was worried that he'd associate Tara's arrival with his toys being broken," said Natalie.

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Maybe you were. Anyway, Flappy and Yellow and Fluttersby and whatever the other one is-- they're all doing fine in their new incarnations. Miran is four, so he has big emotions about little things. When you're with him, you need to stay calm and remember that there are no real problems in his world."

"Except the . . ."

"There are no real problems in his world. Aziraphale and I will always protect him from harm," said Crowley. "Always."

====================================

Pride was in July, and the big parade went within blocks of the shop. It would have been foolish to refuse the parking spot that Aziraphale offered, and so, fresh from gaining a new understanding of the effortlessly manipulative Aziraphale and his angel-addicted mate, Natalie found herself in the bookshop again. The big parade had ended almost an hour ago, but it had taken that long for Natalie and Richard to get from their viewing spot back to the shop. The street outside the shop was still teeming with colorfully dressed people.

There were a few people in the shop, mostly families with young children. They seemed to be using the shop as a waystation for changing nappies, applying sunblock, treating minor injuries, and the like. Some of the furniture from the edges of the shop had been brought into the middle, under the atrium. A large rainbow flag had been hung from railing on the upper floor of the atrium. A table near the door had refreshments, and many hand lettered signs announced where the limited acceptable locations for eating and drinking were. Another sign directed the way to the loo in the basement. 

Aziraphale was standing next to a column, arms folded, surveying the scene, as he talked to a tall white haired man whose face suggested that he was in his sixties, but whose body seemed remarkably trim. The man's otherwise unremarkable outfit was accented with a broad brimmed hat with a small rainbow flag pinned to it. 

Aziraphale waved merrily when Natalie came in. 

"Hello", he said. "Help yourself to lemonade or tea!"

Natalie grabbed a cup of lemonade, led Richard to a sofa in a quiet corner, and sat down to rest her feet. 

A few minutes later, her host came by, bringing his friend. 

"So glad to see you this year," said the angel. "William, this is Natalie Fernsby and her partner Richard Harris. Natalie is the head of the midwifery practice that we've been telling you about. She has never before made it to our shop on a Pride weekend because she is so dedicated to her stall." 

"Natalie and Richard," Aziraphale said, "Meet William Gastrell. William is one of the founding fathers of our gay fathers pub group. And he is the only person that has a chance of ever beating me at the yearly musicals trivia contest."

"But I haven't yet had a chance to meet Ezra Fell in battle," said William. "The penalty for winning is that you have to run the next year's competition, and he and I keep trading off."

"Impressive," said Natalie, "And how do you come by your knowledge of musicals?"

"I'm a choreographer," said William. "I've worked in theatre for forty-seven years." 

William was charming and fascinating, and sipping lemonade in the shop with Aziraphale's human friends was a lot more fun than sitting under an awning and handing out flyers and cold water and answering the same six questions over and over. Natalie decided that delegating her stall duties this year had been an excellent plan. It was good to be the boss. 

Once her feet were no longer sore and Richard was happily in conversation with a fellow engineer from the gay fathers group, Natalie felt an urge to sneak upstairs to the flat, where Crowley was on duty. Tara was asleep in her cot, the picture of a healthy two week old angel, and Natalie looked her over with a certain pride. 

Crowley made tea and caught Natalie up on the dance school gossip. They whispered together over the kitchen table so as not to wake the baby or be overheard by Miran.

"Two families were asked to leave," Crowley was saying. "Emily's and Tiffany's. And one other family was issued an 'official warning', whatever that is. The rest are either on our side or too scared to say anything. So that's something."

"That sounds good," said Natalie. "Is Miran happy? Is he enjoying camp?"

"Meh," said Crowley. "You can control the parents, but not the kids. First week in, Miran comes home and tells me that somebody told him that he was just pretending to be a boy."

"Wow," said Natalie. "How did you handle it?"

"Told him the truth," said Crowley. "What else am I supposed to tell him? We're all pretending. They're just roles. He can pick whatever he wants, but some humans get tetchy if they catch you switching."

As they were talking, Aziraphale snuck into the flat and inserted himself into the discussion.

"You didn't answer her question," he said to his mate. He turned to Natalie. "Miran is enjoying the dance camp very much. He is confused but not overly upset about the older children's reactions to him. The situation is not ideal in the long term, but it will do for now." 

"Ergh," said Crowley. He rolled his eyes and then curled his lip with disdain. " ' _Tolerance_ ', " he said. 

Aziraphale kissed his demon partner on the head. "I came upstairs to ask if you would like a turn downstairs. People are asking after you."

"Why don't you both go downstairs for a bit?", said Natalie. "I'll stay up here with the kids. I can call Crowley if Tara wakes." 

As they left, it occurred to her that she had looked Aziraphale in the eye. 

Miran was playing in the parlor, so Natalie sat with him. She really did like spending time with him. He was nearly as interesting as his parents. 

"Did you see the parade?", she asked him. "Did you like it?"

He shrugged. "It lasted a very long time," he said. "I got a flag instead of a whistle. Aadi said no whistle but everyone other had whistles. I don't like candyfloss even a little. The Queen was there but not really her. You can shout a lot but not right in somebody's ear and grownups are allowed to just wear pants with no trousers if they are rainbow pants."

It was an admirable summary of the Pride parade. 

Miran played on the floor while she sat on the pig shaped floor pillow and explored his dollhouse, which was making her past childhood self insane with jealousy. It was an intricately detailed three story Victorian home made of a dark stained wood with multiple gables and balconies. The walls of the dollhouse were wallpapered and the entire thing was furnished with intricate wooden furniture. While Natalie marveled, Miran ignored the amazing dollhouse in favor of playing with some dried pasta that had been dipped in paint. 

"These are the butterfly people," he said, holding up some familiar looking glued together pasta creations. "This one is Flappy and he is the best flier and Yellow is his Special Best Friend, but the butterflies all have wings and they can fly and chase each other and dance and go to all the high places whenever they want." 

"Ah ha," said Natalie as she traced the carved brackets under one of the dollhouse porches with her thumb. 

Scattered on the floor were dozens of colorfully painted spiral shaped macaroni noodles. "These are the caterpillar people," said Miran. "There are lots more of them because Papa has _Only So Much Time_ for gluing but painting is easy and you can dip them in with your hands."

"Oh," said Natalie. And that was all she needed to say, because Miran chattered on merrily. 

"Caterpillars don't have wings but they can play on the floor and the butterflies can play with them sometimes."

"How nice," said Natalie. 

"Up there are the moth people," said Miran. He pointed to some undyed pasta bowties up on a shelf. "They can fly but they don't know how to play any fun games, so the butterfly people don't visit them very often."

"Ah," said Natalie. 

The pasta caterpillars all trotted up the wooden stairs and arrayed themselves on the porch of the dollhouse. 

"We should bring lemonade for the caterpillars because it is a Hot And Sunny Day and so the caterpillars will become ill if we don't give them a drink," said Miran. "But the butterflies don't need to have a drink unless they want to."

"Oh," said Natalie. "And do any of them want to?" 

"Just Mr. Fluttersby. He likes lemonade a really lot. So we should make a very big amount. Like a thousand million. Or else he will drink it all up before the caterpillars get their share."

And when Aziraphale came upstairs to relieve her from her babysitting duties, Natalie, knowing that he couldn't read her mind, felt free to call him 'Mr Fluttersby' in the privacy of her thoughts. 

Back on the ground floor of the shop, Richard was sitting with a small collection of men, and one man-like demon. Off in another corner of the shop, a gaggle of teens and tweens slouched on the furniture and stared at their mobiles. All the adults were chatting merrily, and they were drinking. Everyone had a wine glass and several open bottles were being passed around. The streets were still full of people, but the shop was no longer full of young families. A woman stepped through the door and asked for the loo, and Crowley waved a lazy hand overhead to point the way. 

"You'll never guess," said Crowley to Natalie, as he handed her a glass of something white. "We may have a solution for Miran for autumn."

"One of my students," said William. "He loves working with children. And the studio I teach at has been toying for years with the idea of starting a program for younger people. Miran's troubles have reminded me of yet another reason why we really need to get it started. I'm going to talk it over with the directors on Monday."

"Huh," said Natalie, narrowing her eyes and timing her words very carefully as she watched Crowley sip his drink out of the corner of her eye. "Sounds wonderful. I guess your studio just needs a little . . . push . . . in the right direction." 

The old demon choked on his wine. 

====================================

Four weeks later, after Crowley's final post-delivery appointment, Natalie heard Aziraphale's version of events of afternoon after the Pride parade.

He was the picture of innocence as he recounted the story. "Well," he said. "It all came about rather fortuitously. I was talking to William, who ran the musicals trivia contest last year, and he asked whether I could do it this year. Now traditionally, I would run it this year as I won last year, but with Tara being newly born, he wanted to ask if I might wish to share the load, which was terribly gracious of him, considering that he wouldn't be able to participate two years in a row."

"But at least it means someone else is allowed to win," said Crowley, "Rather than you two trading off every year forever." He had a sort of indulgent smile on his face and he was rocking back and forth in his chair as he fed the baby his life energy by letting her suck on his crooked finger. 

"True," said Aziraphale. "It may be for the best in many ways. At any rate, one thing led to another and William asked about Miran and I told him of our troubles, and before I knew what was happening, we had plans to put together some classes for autumn. He even found us studio space within the school he teaches at, and he's taking care of all the insurance needs."

"Yeah," said Crowley. "So now all the people who wanted to quit in support of us have a place to go in September-- if they're serious."

"And there are already eight students signed up, some of whom have parents in ranks of the Gay Father's Club," said Aziraphale. "It's going to be a small program, but up to three hours a week of instruction will be offered for each age group, and we've all been assured that there will be no gender role shenanigans whatsoever."

"Yep," said Crowley. "Miran can perform in a skirt or trousers or a peacock costume. Nobody cares. No boy parts or girl parts. They're all just kids."

"All in all, a very productive Pride parade day," said Aziraphale.

"Definitely worth it," said Crowley, "And we got away with the fluffy baby blanket illusion too. So that gets everyone off our back about seeing the baby for a while."

"Darling, did you talk to Aadi and Lee at all the other day?", said Aziraphale. "They really are desperate to hold Tara. How on Earth are we going to hide her wings if she is in their arms?" 

"No idea, Angel. No idea. That's a problem for another day. Let's not borrow trouble. Just got to get through today."

At that moment, Miran ran into the kitchen and put two small pieces of pink plastic down onto the table. "Can you fix my baby's cot, Daddy?"

"Again?", said Aziraphale. 

"In a few minutes, Merry," said Crowley. "I'm feeding Tara."

"Kay," said Miran, and he rubbed the baby's head and ran off, leaving the broken bits on the table.

"How I despise plastic toys," said Aziraphale. "The smell of them. And they always break."

"I don't mind fixing them," said Crowley, "Anyway, he loves the baby furniture, and the distraction bought us forty-eight hours so that we didn't have to rush to reincarnate all the butterflies right after Tara was born." 

"I can see how much he loves babies," said Natalie. "He's going to be a wonderful big brother."

"Yep," said Crowley. "Already is." He put the baby up onto his shoulder. Baby angels didn't need to be burped, but after a feeding Tara liked to be held a certain way, with her head curling over her dad's shoulder. 

"I do worry," said Aziraphale, "Did we get it right? The whole gender thing?"

"Eh, we'll know in two years," said Crowley. "When she can speak." 

"Not Tara's gender," said Aziraphale. "Miran's. We did choose it rather arbitrarily. And he exhibits a lot of feminine behaviors." The angel selected a tea cake covered in candied violets and placed it on his antique porcelain plate. Then he poured himself some more tea from the matching antique teapot. "Perhaps he would be more well adjusted if we'd called him a girl. I certainly don't want to force masculinity upon him."

Crowley caught Natalie's eye and they both smirked. 

"The real question," said Crowley. "Is what would he be like if we modeled things differently? How do we know how much of him is him and how much is what he picks up from being around us?"

Aziraphale pondered this as he savored his tea cake. 

"I suppose," he said at last, "That if my influence were that strong, he'd be eating cakes with us. He certainly made his feelings about food known to me. Likewise, I suppose, he will feel free to correct us if at any point he feels we have his gender assignment wrong." The angel served himself another tea cake and nodded to his mate. "As you wisely pointed out earlier, there is no need to borrow trouble. Tomorrow's problems will arrive in their own time. And we will meet them together. As a family."


	11. The Teen Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new dance school grows and so do Miran and Tara. Teenaged Miran and Tara are passionate about the things they love and have some familiar inhuman traits. Aziraphale strives to retain control of the household while Crowley thrives on the chaos.

As far as the dance school kerfuffle went, everything did work out all right, but not immediately. After a second incident at the dance camp, Aziraphale withdrew Miran and sent him to his regular preschool for the rest of summer, where he grew his very own flower from a seed and learned how to swing on a swing all by himself. 

The new dance school that Aziraphale's friend William co-founded was named Dance Out Loud, and it started in September with only fifteen students in three age groups. Quite a few of the children were queer or from queer families and, right from the beginning, the school rules forbade gender stereotyping. All of the children were taught the same movements and the costuming was not gendered at all. Four of the families from Miran's old dance school decided to follow him to Dance Out Loud. Ruth's daughters and Heather's daughter were all perfectly happy to trade their pink tutus for black leotards. Ruth's older daughter had thought pink was babyish anyway, and the younger girls liked their new teacher enough that the trade was well worth it to them. 

It turned out that being located in a dance studio complex that several major theatres used for their rehearsals created some very significant advantages for the nascent dance school. Esteemed choreographers and dancers, including William Gastrell, regularly served as guest instructors. The older children had opportunities to observe professional dancers rehearsing for West End shows, and they sometimes received invitations to watch actual performances. 

By its third year of operation, Dance Out Loud had one hundred and fifty students and had gained a city-wide reputation. And that is how it came to be that Natalie found out about the fate of one Miran's tormentors. She was having tea one September afternoon with her favorite occult family when they shared the gossip. 

"You'll never guess who showed up at our information night last week," said Aziraphale. "Tiffany. Apparently, since leaving our old dance school she's been on rather an odyssey-- going from school to school with her daughters. And she heard about Dance Out Loud. You see, last year two of our teenage students got the opportunity to dance in professional productions."

"Minor theatres, minor parts," said Crowley. "Let's not overstate things."

"And we do field trips to dance performances at least thrice a year," said Aziraphale. "Starting at age eight."

"But Miran went when he was five," said Crowley.

"One of the perks of having his papa on the board of directors," said Aziraphale. "And since I am one of the directors, it chanced that I was in the room when Tiffany's oldest daughter's candidacy was being discussed." Aziraphale smirked as he took a sip of tea, and then he affected a very sorrowful tone of voice. "Alas, there were no more spaces available in the class, as two new scholarship-only slots had recently been added for that age group. The total number of students is capped of course, to provide the individualized attention that we are known for. And we couldn't give a scholarship spot away to someone who wasn't truly in need. So I'm afraid it was out of the question. I wrote a personal note to Tiffany to explain exactly how heartbroken I was to have to turn her family away." 

============================================

Natalie was in the office with door closed when she heard a knock on her door. She looked up and it wasn't her secretary at all. It was Crowley. His hair had gotten long over the years and it now cascaded all the way down to his shoulders in red ringlets. Five year old Tara was by his side, clinging to his leg with her arm, her head pressed up against the side of his belly. She looked like a color-shifted miniature of her father, tall, lanky, with strong cheekbones and white-blond hair in ringlets down to her shoulders. She had a fringe cut in front and a little headband to keep the rest of her hair out of her face. Her eyes were a piercing ice blue, and she had striking vertical slits for pupils. 

Tara was very quiet today. She usually was a quiet child, but Natalie knew her well, and this level of quiet was much more profound than her normal observant silences. 

"Hi," said Crowley. "I'm sorry to interrupt your work day, but I'll only be a few minutes." He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were damp and they were darting from side to side. 

"Can you sit?", said Natalie. 

He shook his head.

"Aziraphale and Miran are out in the Bentley." he said. "We have to go. Today. Now. It's fine. It will be. Just not sure how long. Time is different there. But . . ."

"You're leaving?", she said, as she rushed toward him. Leaving what? Leaving London? Leaving Earth? 

He sucked his lips into a flat line, and he nodded once, emphatically. 

"I, um, we, um . . ." He shook his head and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You've done so much for us. I hate to ask you to do something else for us, but . . . Um, just in case. It could be a while before we come back."

He handed her a business card. She read the words on it. It was a woman's name. A publisher. Natalie cocked her head. She didn't understand. She was trying to work out exactly where the angel-demon family was going. Heaven? Was that a real place? The underworld? An alien world? A space ship?

"I wanted to ask you to please write that book that you had been talking about writing," said Crowley. "It would mean so much to Aziraphale. That person is a publisher. He wanted to give you her name. She owes him a favor. She'll help you find a good editor, anything you need."

"But I'm not sure there's really an audience for a book," said Natalie. "And all my lectures and my videos are publicly available." But as she was speaking, she was figuring it out. The book shop. All the signed first editions that her angelic patron had showed her. So many of them personalized with notes to Aziraphale. 

It was never a shop, it was a mausoleum. 

As she was thinking these things, Crowley met her eyes and gave her a solemn nod. This was a goodbye. 

"Signed," she said. "A first edition, signed."

He nodded. 

"And where do I send it?", said Natalie. "If the shop is closed? If you aren't there?"

"The publisher will handle everything," said Crowley. "Just call her."

Natalie nodded. This was it then, her last meeting with the demon who changed her life. And here she was with no time to compose her goodbye. Whatever she said now would be her last words to him. And all she could think of to say was the simplest thing.

"Thank you," said Natalie. "For everything." She gestured toward the clinic behind him, bustling with people. "I wouldn't have been able to do this without you and your family."

"You would have," he said. "If you'd been born a man. If you'd had born into a family that could give you more advantages. Aziraphale and I just evened things out. Gave you a fair shot."

"If I'd been a man from a wealthy family," said Natalie, "I wouldn't have known this kind of health care was needed."

"Don't sell yourself short," said Crowley. "You'd have figured it out, eventually. You're too compassionate not to have." He glanced over his shoulder at the clinic and nodded. "You'll be fine from here on out."

He held out a hand and she took it, and then he clasped his other hand over hers and held on. There was so much warmth in his hands. He looked into her eyes steadily, and she felt something, a lightness in her body, a sad ache in her heart. Then the warm press of his hands was suddenly gone and he and Tara had disappeared from the room, leaving just the cedar and musk scent of him. The door of the waiting area was already drifting shut by the time she reached the waiting area. 

Natalie ran to a window that overlooked the street, and she saw the two of them on the pavement walking toward the Bentley. Miran was hanging out the rear window on the passenger side, a sturdy ten year old, his long curly hair framing his still baby-plump face. He didn't seem to see her until Aziraphale pointed up at her window, and then both father and son waved. Tara and Crowley must have slipped into the other side of the vehicle while they were waving, because there was a thumping noise and the car suddenly came to life and pulled off into traffic and then it disappeared around a corner. 

===========================================

Natalie knew that her book was never going to be a collector's item. It wasn't _Frankenstein_ or _Wuthering Heights_ or _A Tale of Two Cities_. She hadn't even been the one to choose the title or the cover art. And her author's photograph on the dust jacket always seemed a little strange to her. The bulky necklace and the earrings were things she wouldn't wear on a normal day, but the photographer had insisted that there needed to be visual interest in the photo. 

It was an odd book. It wasn't quite a biography and it wasn't quite a technical manual. Neither fish nor fowl. Natalie was proud of it, but she knew that, realistically, it was a book that only a few people would want to buy: young nurses and midwives and obstetricians perhaps.

But whether it was of interest to the ages or not, at least one book collector would keep her book. Her words would live as long as the angel could keep them preserved. The book might reside next to Aziraphale's Victorian horticulture books or perhaps near his post-war cook book collection. It would be a small monument to Aziraphale's friendship with her, the last way that she could talk with him. 

Natalie chose every word in that book very carefully, as if she were saying it all to him. She told the stories of the patients who had led her into her work. (Some of them anonymized, and some with pictures and their real first names.) The first lesbian who had come to her, just wanting a bit of dignity, just wanting to not have to explain to every nurse that her partner was not her sister. The first paraplegic. Gemma, who had been born with no arms and congenital anemia, but wouldn't let that stop her from bearing her own child. All of those parents, courageous and just needing support, just needing a midwife who would look for possibilities, listen to their needs, make the medical system fit them instead of the other way around. 

Natalie had fifty hard cover copies of the book in her house. She gave a few away to friends and family. She put one on the bookshelf in the parlor. She gave one to Aadi and Lee, Miran's other babysitters, who had also become entwined enough in the angel-demon family that Aziraphale and Crowley ended up revealing themselves to them. A signed copy of the book was at the publishing house, and another had been placed with Aziraphale's solicitor, and yet another had been sent to one of the angel's friends in the states. 

Natalie still hoped that the angel-demon family might return in time for her to be able to deliver a signed copy of her book to Aziraphale in person. She was only sixty-seven years old, after all. Every year, on the anniversary of Miran's birth, Natalie opened up one of the books and wrote a fresh note to Aziraphale. Then she signed her name. She kept the books on an otherwise empty shelf at home. The shelf was very wide and completely empty, and she kept it that way. She had forty unsigned books in reserve. Just in case. 

===========================================

Only three books were on her shelf on the day that Crowley rang to tell her that his family had returned to London. Natalie hired a car to take her over to the shop as soon as the call was over. It was late May. The blinds were drawn on the shop, and the sign said closed, but she pressed on the buzzer. 

A young man opened the door to the shop. He had hazel eyes: green and blue with gold flecks dancing in them. His hair was short cropped on the sides with a little mop of wavy auburn curls on top. He was almost exactly as tall as Natalie, and he moved with a confidence that made him seem a lot older than his fourteen and a half years. He took one of her hands into both of his own, a perfect imitation of his father's gesture. He said hello and he looked her in the eyes, and she didn't quite fall in, not like in old days. There was restraint and courtesy to his unearthly charm. He was a beautiful combination of his parents, breathtakingly handsome, with an openhearted expression on his face that made Natalie feel seen and appreciated. Miran took the heavy bag of books from her hand and motioned for her to enter. Miran shut the front door and latched it and led her into the shop. The way Miran walked wasn't the normal awkward lope of a teenager. Half-grown Miran walked a lot like Crowley did, with an easy grace that suggested boundless health and inhuman flexibility. 

The illusion of his maturity shattered when Miran stood at the bottom of the stairs and bellowed "DAD, POP, Natalie's here!" It was a perfectly obnoxious teenage way of introducing a guest. He always had been gifted with an unusually strong voice. 

Miran led her up the stairs to upper floor of the bookshop, bounding up them two at at time till he reached the half-way point. At that point he seemed to realize that she was only on the second step, and he looked chagrined and stopped to wait for her to make her way up. As she did, footsteps hurried towards them and there was Crowley standing at the top of the stairs, his short red hair all disheveled, looking a bit confused. When he saw Natalie, he burst into a genuine smile, the likes of which she'd never seen him bestow on anyone who wasn't in his immediate family. 

"Wonderful to see you again, Natalie," he said. "You look well." He waited until she was standing firmly on the upper floor of the shop before he took one of her hands in both of his. She felt warmth flooding her body from his hands. Crowley's greetings had always felt warm, but today's greeting was warmer than she remembered. A funny trick of memory, or perhaps a sign of how much he'd missed her. He met her eyes with his reptilian ones and he continued to hold her hand as he made his excuse for not having been the one to meet her at the door. "I'm sure you tried to text when you arrived, but my mobile has gone missing again and we just got back three days ago and everything is . . ."

Miran pulled a black slab of glass out of his pocket and held it out toward his father. "Sorry," he said. Crowley replied with a small exasperated noise, but he kept his eyes on his guest, and Natalie could see that he was at least as much amused as annoyed. When the demon finally released Natalie's hand, he took his mobile back and stuffed into his pocket. "Go fetch your sister," he said to Miran. Then he took the bag of books from Miran and led Natalie through a maze of books all stacked in teetering piles on the floor.

Crowley showed Natalie to a brand new sitting area on the upper floor of the bookshop and then retreated to the flat. The sitting area was comfortable but a bit strange. It was as if the angel-demon family was trying to make a parlor out of a portion of the shop. Empty book shelves formed three partial walls around the pseudo-room. A large television was leaning against one of the shelves. 

While she waited for her hosts, Natalie amused herself by looking around the parlor area and figuring out where each piece of furniture had come from. One of the sofas and the Victorian arm chair where Tara had been birthed were from the parlor in the flat. The other sofa and armchair came from a sitting area that used to be down on the ground floor of the shop. The large and relatively modern glass table she recognized from her very first visit to the flat. It must have been in storage for the past fourteen years. 

Natalie sat in the Victorian armchair and found that it was so comfortable that her hips didn't bother her in the least. As soon as she sat down, Aziraphale came around a corner bearing a tray. Crowley followed him. 

"We're experimenting with the arrangement of the flat," said Aziraphale. "Fifty-five square meters is feeling a bit cramped," he said. "So we're moving bedrooms around and we're going to try to use this part of the shop as a parlor. As a temporary measure." 

"Yeah," said Crowley. "Because all four of us sharing a bedroom is--"

"Untenable," supplied the angel.

"That too," said Crowley. He set down a three tiered porcelain cake stand filled with what looked to be about fifteen different types of eclairs in a variety of bright colors. Then he sprawled across one of the sofas with one leg up over the arm and the other on the floor. As tight-fitting as his dark jeans seemed to be, they were clearly infinitely flexible. Likewise his apparently satin red shirt did not have any puckering or wrinkles despite the strange way he arranged his limbs. The fabrics of a demon's clothes had whatever properties he imagined they did. 

Aziraphale sat upright in a wing backed armchair and gestured toward the bounteous food. The eclairs on the top tier were brightly colored: red, yellow, green, purple, and pink. They were covered in tiny flowers, fruits, and bits of what looked like gold foil. "The savory eclairs are on the bottom level," the angel said. "I can particularly recommend the salmon and cream cheese ones." And then he poured the tea. 

Tara and Miran returned to the parlor. Natalie tried not to let her jaw drop when she saw Tara. The girl, or angel-demon hybrid, looked like an Icelandic fairy princess. She was willowy and tall and had perfect cheekbones. Her white-blonde hair fell in waves around her shoulders. She practically glided over the floor as she followed in her brother's wake. No human child could be so graceful. Not yet ten years old, Tara had nearly caught up to her fourteen-year-old brother in height; she was less than a head shorter than him. Her ice blue reptilian eyes were striking. She was terrifying and beautiful in equal measure. Natalie wondered if she would be even more terrifying with her pure white wings unfurled. 

Natalie did her very best not to stare, but Tara blushed from head to toe as the re-introduction was made. After shaking Natalie's hand she curled up in the corner of a sofa. Miran sat down next to Tara and made up a cup of tea that was more cream and sugar than anything else, and passed it to her. He selected an eclair that was covered in hazelnuts, put it on a plate and set it down in front of his sister. Then he poured himself a cup of tea and drank it black. Tara uncurled a little and sat with her knees pressed together under her little cotton dress and hid behind her teacup, a shy fairy princess.

Miran, on the other hand, spoke animatedly. He'd missed Natalie terribly, and London, and, most of all, dancing. There were a half dozen styles of dance that he was hoping to try, and he'd spent the early part of the afternoon looking for teachers, sending texts and making calls on his father's mobile. He was very much looking forward to getting his own mobile and a laptop. He thought that if he had a big enough screen to watch on, he might be able to start to teach himself flamenco, and, since his father had dabbled in that dance, he hoped that he and Crowley might eventually take lessons together. 

As he talked, Miran's hands executed some of the motions of the dances he was describing. Several times, he stood up to more fully demonstrate the movements. And Natalie watched, enthralled. When Miran finally paused his lecture, she realized that the eclair feast was nearly gone. Between Tara and Aziraphale, about three quarters of the gourmet pastries had already been eaten. As Natalie snagged the very last tomato and feta eclair, she chanced to glance over at Tara. The ethereal girl's eyes widened. She held her empty teacup and saucer up almost in front of her face and ducked behind them and pretended to drink. 

"Right," said Crowley. "I think kid time is done. You two go sort out your bedroom. The adults want to talk." Tara put her cup and saucer down on the tray and dashed away like a startled deer. She zigzagged through the stacks of books on the floor and around a bookshelf. The door of the flat opened and thumped shut before her abandoned teacup had stopped rattling in its saucer. 

Miran stood up and followed after his sister. "Don't worry," he said to Crowley. "I'll look after Star."

"Tara is having a great deal of difficulty adjusting to being back in London," said Aziraphale. "As you can see."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," said Natalie. She wondered whether there had been buildings and human-like people where the angel-demon family had gone. But neither of her hosts seemed inclined to give any information about where they had been, other than that it wasn't London. 

"Yeah," said Crowley, "Poor kid can't help but hear everyone's thoughts. Can't even walk down down the street without getting attention, and all the wrong kind. No child her age should have to hear the unfiltered thoughts of every male in London."

"She won't even be ten till next month," said Natalie. But Tara was taller than some grown women, and with the graceful way she walked, she could easily pass for twelve or thirteen. Twelve was the age Natalie had been when she'd first gotten unwanted public attention. 

"Yep," said Crowley. "And it isn't going to get better. But we'll think of something."

And then it was just like old times. Aziraphale was charming. He found the books Natalie had brought for him and read all three of her dedications aloud. He flipped through the pages of her book, discussing the pictures and reading particularly pithy phrases from the text as if he was revisiting a great literary classic. After a while, he stopped reading aloud and shamelessly pored over the paragraphs, chuckling at the funny bits and gasping at the sad parts. That was alright with Natalie. She had Crowley to chat with. And there were still three eclairs left. 

===========================================

As he himself predicted, Miran adored London, and he immediately started dancing at his old studio and at several other studios. Before his fifteenth birthday, he had made dancing his full-time occupation. Aziraphale was disappointed that his son hadn't enrolled in any academic school, and pressed books on him on every occasion, but he didn't seem terribly worried for his child's future. An angel-demon person who lived on air and could charm humans into doing his bidding was never going to want for anything, even if his formal academic education had stopped when he was ten years old. 

"Well," said the old angel, as he and Natalie leaned over the upper floor railing to watch Miran tapping out a slow motion Irish step dance on the ground floor of the shop. "At least we know that he can count to eight." And count to eight he did. Again and again and again. 

At age sixteen, Miran decided to adopt gender neutral pronouns. "I want people to see me as I actually am," they said. And that was that. 

Mirans refusal to be bound by gender extended to all of their dancing. They danced the Can-Can in a ridiculous ruffled skirt. They joined an otherwise all male Capoeira club and did graceful cartwheels and high kicks in musical martial displays that looked like movie stunt fighting had been set to a beat. They sampled everything: from African styles to Pacific Island styles, from folk dances to hip hop, sometimes learning the male part and sometimes the female, and sometimes both. London had every style of dance in the world, and Miran was as much a glutton for dance as their papa was for food. 

"Their entire bedroom is nothing more than a costume closet," Aziraphale complained. "And their costumes have spilled out into the shop." Unfortunately, the old angel had no moral high ground whatsoever when it came to overlarge personal collections. In the end, some books and some costumes were moved to the family's cottage, and there was a rearrangement of the shop and everything was made to more or less fit. 

Tara was as introverted as her sibling was extroverted. Other than to attend Miran's performances, Tara never went out in London. She attended school in a small village in the South where the family had a cottage. The village was a haven for queer couples and pensioners and had very few other children. 

Aziraphale and Crowley certainly seemed to spare no effort to give each of their two very different children the perfect environment to help them thrive as they grew up. As the years passed, Natalie tried to figure out how they managed to live between two houses with so little apparent strain. All of the family members had such close relationships with each other. They probably traded off which parent stayed in each location. 

It was obviously a complicated family schedule, and Natalie never figured it out. Tara did seem to sleep at the bookshop on the nights that Natalie visited, although in order to avoid traffic and get all the way to her village school on time she'd surely have to wake at five in the morning. The Bentley didn't seem too much the worse for the wear, so that might mean that Tara spent most nights in the cottage, or it might mean that the car was so magical that it didn't wear down no matter how many times it made the round trip from London. Crowley did mention something about how having the mobiles made it easy for the family to bridge the distance, so they must have talked every day. At any rate, none of the family members ever complained of their strange arrangement, so it must have been acceptable to them. Angel-demons weren't quite like human people after all.

============================================

  
  


When Natalie arrived at the shop, a young person answered the door, someone she didn't know. They held the door shut against their side and blocked her way. The young person was of indeterminate gender, had medium dark skin, bright turquoise hair and a lot of eye makeup. They were wearing very short denim shorts, a tight fitting pink top, and white trainers. In one ear they had a single earbud.

"The shop is closed," the young person said. "Come back during business hours. This is a private gathering."

Natalie tried not to laugh at the youngster. She'd been visiting the shop, on and off, for nineteen years now, and she'd not seen it open for the actual business of buying and selling books more than a dozen times. She had long ago concluded that the shop was an oversized library annexed to Aziraphale and Crowley's modest London flat. Now that Miran had commandeered half of the ground floor for their own private rehearsal space, the notion that the 'shop' was anything other than a part of the family's home was, at best, a polite social fiction. 

Before Natalie even had to explain to the young person that she was not a hapless would-be customer, there was a shout, and the young person looked behind themself and opened the door wider. 

Nineteen year old Miran came sailing towards them both, leaping over the uncarpeted wood floor. Like their friend, they were wearing white trainers, extremely short denim shorts, and a tight fitting pink shirt. Their shock of hair was lime green and spiked. They took one of Natalie's hands in both of theirs and looked down into her eyes and said "I'm so sorry about that, Natalie. You are always welcome here." 

They led Natalie inside. Eight more young people with brightly colored hair were on the ground floor of the shop. They were all in the same uniform as Miran. They were sitting on the floor, leaning against the pillars around the atrium. Some of them were drinking water. Others were stretching and massaging their legs, and three of them were simply sitting with their eyes closed and taking deep breaths. 

Crowley came down the stairs and crossed the floor of the atrium, not sparing a glance for any of the slumping dancers. He only seemed interested in the blue haired dancer who had tried to block Natalie's entrance to the shop. His appearance was formidable. High heeled black leather sandals added fifteen centimeters to his already impressive height. He wearing a long black gown that surrounded one shoulder with folds of silk fabric and left the other bare. It clung to his hips and thighs and then flared out like a mermaid's tail around his ankles. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of over-sized designer sunglasses. He could have been a movie star on a red carpet. His long red hair was up in a French twist. His toenails and fingernails all gleamed with metallic black nail polish.

Crowley crossed the room in the most menacingly slow saunter. With every click of his heels along the wooden floor of the shop, the hapless door guardian flinched. But they didn't move from their spot next to the door. They awaited their fate in frozen fear. When Crowley finally reached them, he bent over them very slowly. 

"Thisss is MY guessst," Crowley said. "Who wasss ex-ssspected. You don't ansss-er my door." 

The young person quailed and muttered something inaudible and then scuttled away as soon as Crowley turned his attention to Natalie. The demon was much friendlier to her. 

"It's good to see you Natalie," he said. He took her hand in both of his and she felt the warmth of his touch spread through her body, as if she was slipping into a healing bath. When he released her hand, he turned to his child. "Come on up and visit with us, Merry." His voice was soft but commanding. Any normal person would have obeyed instantly. But Miran looked up at their father and shook their head. 

"Can't," said Miran. And then they turned to Natalie. "I'm so sorry," they said. "I can't today. We have only two more rehearsals left before the competition. And we have a long way to go." 

"Natalie is the reason you are alive, my little dancing fiend," said Crowley, "So take a half hour off and come visit with her." 

"Dad," said Miran, in a low voice. "This is serious. I can't spare the time. We only have a few hours left for today's practice and they're getting worse, not better."

Crowley leaned over close to his child's ear. "Merry, look at them," muttered Crowley. "They need a break. Let them eat and get a drink and use a toilet and they'll perk right back up."

"I already gave them a break earlier," said Miran. 

"Yeah," said Crowley. His voice was very low. "And now they need another one. A long one. See how their heads are hanging down? That's the sign that you've exhausted them."

"But--", said Miran.

"You'll damage them if you push them any further. You may have damaged them already. They need to eat and drink and have access to the toilet at least every two hours. This is what I was talking about. If you're going to do these competitions, I expect you to be responsible."

Miran looked down at their feet and worried at their lip with their teeth. "Lost track of time," they said at last. "We were making so much progress earlier today and I just--."

"Set a timer in the future," said Crowley. "And have your Papa or me look them over before you return to your rehearsing today. Got it?" 

Miran nodded at their father and then walked over to the dance area. "Okay Crew," they said. "Good work. Go grab yourselves something light to eat. Meet back here at the shop in an hour." There was an audible sigh of relief from all of the dancers. 

"Do you want us to bring you some food?", asked one of the dancers. 

"Nah," said Miran. "I'll get something upstairs."

The dancers all changed into their street shoes and grabbed bags and backpacks and headed for the door. As they filed passed her, Miran told Natalie their names. "This is Natalie," they told their dance crew. "She's the midwife who saved my life the day I was born."

"Tried to kill me that day," muttered Crowley, as he shut the door. "And you haven't stopped trying since then." 

"You're a tough old demon," replied Miran. "You can take it." 

Crowley led Natalie toward the stairs. Then he paused on the bottom step. "Star," he said. "I forgot. She's . . . napping in the parlor."

"I'll warn her," said Miran. And he dashed up the stairs, taking them three at time. Natalie took the stairs one at time. Her knees never seemed to bother her when she was in the shop, but it was her habit to be slow and take her time on all staircases. It wasn't worth chancing a fall at her age. 

By the time Natalie made it to the top of the stairs and past the massive book shelves that shielded the family's "parlor" from public view, Tara had woken up. More or less. She was sprawled across the entire length of one of the sofas in an improbable tangle of long limbs. She was lying on her belly. Her white-blonde hair lay around her head in clouds of curls that brightly reflected the sunbeam that she'd been napping in. Miran was sitting on the floor in front of her with their hand on her shoulder. When her father and Natalie came near, Tara twisted her long neck slowly from one side to the other and lifted her head. She blinked her ice blue eyes very slowly. Her vertical pupils were narrow slits. 

Aziraphale came around the corner with a cake on a tray. "I'm so sorry Starlight," he said. "I completely neglected to warn you that Natalie would be visiting this afternoon."

"Urrrgh," she replied. Then she rolled her shoulders and let the motion pass down the length of her whole body in an impossibly smooth undulation before finally swinging her feet to the floor and unfolding herself to her full height. 

There was a swaying quality to how she rose and walked over to shake Natalie's hand with her own narrow hand. It was as if her hips and shoulders were all only loosely attached to each other. She was tall, too. The girl was only fourteen years old and even in bare feet she towered over Natalie. Her nails were elaborately manicured with spring flowers on them. She wore a tight fitting top and a long flowing green skirt that clung to her narrow hips. "Pleasssed to see you again," she said. "Ssssorry I'm sssso ssssleepy."

After she greeted Natalie, Tara folded her legs underneath her on the sofa and slowly paged through a thick and ancient book as she half-listened to the conversation. Miran sat on the rug in front of Tara's sofa with their legs in a 180 degree straddle split. They stretched quietly as the older adults talked. Eventually the conversation turned to the family's plans for Pride, and then Miran spoke up. 

"Social Emergency are performing at London Pride," said Miran to Natalie. "You should come see us."

"They are not!", said Tara. "Miran is planning to just commandeer a stage between scheduled performances." 

"Miran!", said Aziraphale, "We talked about this. You'll get a spot on a stage in another year or so. If you upset the organizers' plans by engaging in these disruptive guerrilla performances, they might not give you a stage spot in future years."

"Pop, I can't wait around forever for the establishment to catch up with what we are doing. We have to get our message out. I thought you supported me."

"I've been trying to do so," said Aziraphale. "Now, there is still time to reserve a stall location for your troupe."

"Crew," said Miran. 

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Your-- crew-- can get their message out just as well with a stall, and you can sign up potential new members right on the spot. Isn't that a better use of your time than running about trying to steal attention from the scheduled events? Think past the immediate horizon. Think of the future of Social Emergency. Where do you want to be in two years or in five years, not just this year?"

"Social Emergency are not static, we need to be in motion. And we aren't waiting for the future, we ARE the future," said Miran. They stood up and poured themself a cup of tea. "Thanks for the tea," they said to Aziraphale. And they flounced away through the bookshelves.

Aziraphale's eyes and mouth were perfect circles. He turned to his mate. "Did they tell you they were planning to disrupt Pride?"

"Eh," said Crowley. He was lounging at his full length on a sofa, with his legs dangling over one arm and his very high heels making lazy circles in the air. "Miran's crew won't be the only group trying to disrupt things a bit."

"Yes, but they are my child, and I expect members of our family to show respect to the organizers."

"The whole weekend is barely organized chaos," said Crowley. "What's it matter?"

"We are not done talking about this," said Aziraphale. 

"They're a total hypocrite you know," said Tara, in a carrying voice. "Whenever they organize any event of their own they go mad if anyone dares to put a toe out of line."

"I heard that!", said a voice from far beyond the bookshelves. " 'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds!' "

Tara got up from her sofa and ran around the bookshelves. She must have leaned over the atrium railing to shout down at her sibling because her voice echoed through the whole shop. It was clear that, when she chose to use it, her voice was quite as strong as Miran's. 

"I'd bet a hundred pounds you don't even know who wrote that!", Tara cried. 

"Wasn't it Shakespeare?", said an equally loud voice. 

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. He turned bright red, sprung from his seat and ran out of the pseudo-parlor, his waggling finger raised in the air. 

"Miran is baiting you both," murmured Crowley, not bothering to rise from the sofa where he lounged in his splendid black dress with his feet up on the armrest. He continued to idly trace circles in the air with his high heeled sandals as he listened to the unfolding family drama. 

"You are an illiterate lout!", cried Tara, filling the shop with her scream of rage. 

Aziraphale added his voice to the chaos. Miran seemed to be deliberately misquoting several long dead poets, which enraged their sister and set Aziraphale to making sputtering corrections. The old angel could not manage to discipline his children because he kept derailing himself to correct Miran's misquotes and misattributions. 

"Kids," said Crowley, at last. "Charming aren't they? Shall we retreat to the kitchen till they're done? It could be a while." He picked up the teapot and his cup and led the way to the flat, past the atrium where Aziraphale and Tara were standing at the railing shouting down at Miran. He sauntered past his feuding family with his hair unmussed and not a wrinkle in his silk dress. 

They went into the flat, shut the door behind them, and sat down in the kitchen to enjoy the silence. The tiny flat was far more cramped than ever. The walls were covered with photos of the family and of Miran's dance teams. Every horizontal surface in the kitchen had some thing on it: laptops and tablets were balanced on teetering piles of clothes and books and papers. And there were two bedroom doors off the kitchen. Aziraphale and Crowley's old bedroom had long ago been split in half to give each of the children their own small bedroom. The old parlor had been converted into the grown-up's bedroom. 

"Twenty one years ago, this whole shop was just Aziraphale's," said Crowley. "He lived all by himself in all this space. Can you imagine?"

"Sounds lonely," said Natalie. 

"Well, I've fixed that problem," said Crowley. And he smiled in satisfaction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do . . . To be great is to be misunderstood." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance.


	12. Butterfly Spreads Their Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miran has a career, and their family supports them as they negotiate a world that is afflicted with gender-binary-obsessiveness-disorder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A terribly ignorant member of the media asks our intersex hero the invasive personal question about their genitals.

"Why is she obsessed with a pop star at her age?", whispered the attendant. To her credit, the nurse merely shrugged and walked off to go deliver medicine to her next patient. 

It drove Natalie a bit mad, the way that one young staffer whispered about her in her presence. It was true that most ninety-six year olds were a little bit deaf, but she was most definitely not. With a few subtle motions of her fingers on her mobile, Natalie added the name of the gossiping care assistant to her master list for her upcoming meeting with the care home supervisor. It might seem like a small thing, but Natalie knew that respect for patients was the fundamental value from which all good care emerged. She'd only been in the care home for two weeks, but she was happy to take responsibility for maintaining good discipline among the staff. Just because she didn't want to cook and clean for herself anymore didn't mean she wasn't going to take responsibility for her environment. After all, there were old people here, and someone should look after them. 

Her responsibility done, Natalie turned her attention back to the big screen. She had pre-scheduled her use of the media room at the care facility, but some of the other residents had clearly not read their notifications because the four other white haired people in the room were all quite surprised at what they were viewing. 

===

It was a rather trashy talk show that had aired nearly two decades ago. The celebrity guest was a young person wearing purple silk balloon pants and a fitted long sleeve silk top embroidered with a complex pattern of yellow and purple circles. They were wearing a bright yellow scarf around their shoulders and chest. Their face was covered in pale makeup. They had dark eyeliner and eye shadow that practically made wings on their temples. Their lips were violet and bold lines of blush highlighted their strong cheekbones. Their hair was jet-black and it it swirled and swept over their head in a high wave that fell in a huge curly fall over their forehead. The young guest was sitting on a cushioned arm chair. Opposite them, in a matching arm chair, sat a bottle blonde of a certain age. She spoke rapidly as she introduced them for the camera. 

"For those few of you who still don't know them, this is E. M. Butterfly," said the interviewer. "The dancer who leads Metamorphosis Dance Theatre." She spoke in a rapid-fire way and with the breezy self-confidence that can only come from a long life lived utterly without introspection. "How would you describe what you do? Sort of a combination of dance and circus and sort of almost a magic show. I've seen your show, and even I can't quite describe it."

"But you know you like it," said Butterfly. Their voice was languid and low and almost sultry. 

"You don't like being defined, now do you?", said the woman. 

"Nope," said Butterfly, popping the p. "Not by others. I don't think anyone does, really. That's universal. It's just that I'm in a position where I don't have to put up with it."

"But you still cause a lot of controversy," said the interviewer. "Some people say that you exploit the whole 'gender issue' for ticket sales. And the dancers in your cast are-- well some of them are unusual people, aren't they? What do you have to say about them?"

"I'd say that those of us who have been born as transgressions of the narrow social order are already half-way to being artists," said Butterfly. "And the rest of you poor ordinary people will have to work twice as hard to catch up with us."

"Let's talk about that," said the interviewer. "So you call yourself an 'ungendered being', but, in the past, when you danced with Social Emergency, you used to tell people you were intersex. So what exactly is going on with you? Biologically speaking."

"You want to know what's in my pants?", said Butterfly. They raised an eyebrow. Butterfly leaned slightly forward and ran a finger languidly over their lower lip. "Are you propositioning me? So cheeky! Bit of a cougar aren't you?"

The interviewer tittered. This was clearly just the sort of response she was hoping for. The young dance star was clearly enjoying sparring with her, and she pressed her luck.

"But, your fans do want to know. The speculation is absolutely rampant. Can you settle it for us, right now?"

"Well," they said, addressing the camera, "If you're out there, at home, and you can't stop thinking about what's in my trousers, the first thing I want you to know is that I'm not wearing anything at all under them. And if you're wondering what you might find beneath all this beautiful silk, I want you to close your eyes and imagine whatever you like best, whatever works for you. I don't want anyone to feel excluded. I only want to bring pleasure to all my fans."

"You're a devil!", cried the interviewer. 

"I've been told that," they replied. "Now," continued Butterfly, "None of my live shows are recorded in any way, but with all those on stage costume changes, there's always a chance of a wardrobe malfunction, now isn't there? I think your curious viewers should come to see Singular. They might get lucky."

"And you're here today to share a preview of Singular with us?"

"Just a little tease," they said.

===

The next interview was a lot less salacious, and it featured a slightly older Butterfly. They were wearing a simple green pantsuit with a wide yellow tie. Their hair was bright yellow and spiked in every direction. They sat on a long sofa talking to a middle aged man who was seated behind a desk. 

"What a lot of our viewers might remember about you," the man was saying, "Is the controversy surrounding the fact that you refused to tour outside of the UK for the first seven years of your career. For those in our audience who are too young to remember, can you remind us of what the reason was that Metamorphosis Dance Theatre didn't leave the UK?"

"I couldn't get a license or passport," said Butterfly.

"Because you wouldn't accept official documents with a male or female designation," said the interviewer. 

Butterfly nodded.

"And, at that time," said the interviewer, "There was no third option. But being uncompromising like that really stalled your early career. So, looking back, do you think it was worth it?"

"Would you do it?", said Butterfly. "You see yourself as a man, yes?"

"Yes."

"Would you be willing to carry a passport or driver's licence that said you were female?"

"No. But back at the beginning of my career, I think I might have been willing to do a lot of things that I'm not willing to do now." 

"We talked about it," said Buttterfly. "My cast and crew and I. A fair percentage of them obviously were in a similar situation to myself. And there were heated discussions about whether the principle was worth the price. It caused a lot of tension among us for that whole time." 

"Seven years," said the interviewer.

Butterfly nodded. 

"A lot of trouble for one little letter."

"Yes," said Butterfly, "I never understood why the government cared so much about it.

===

The next interview was an in depth one. It was with a young progressive reporter on a very obscure internet-only channel. Butterfly and the reporter sat at a small round table with large and expensive looking microphones in front of each of them. The reporter was dressed in khaki trousers and a green dress shirt. Butterfly was dressed in a wide shouldered light pink suit that matched their mop of pink hair. Their suit was covered in a strange multicolored design that looked like an abstract artist had splattered the fabric with paint. Butterfly wore heavy makeup, which could account for their still youthful appearance. 

"We do things a bit differently in our company," Butterfly was explaining. "We don't audition for male roles and female roles. We ask: "What you can do?" Can you lift another person? Can you dance on pointe? Etcetera. Dancing is physical work, so a person's size and height and strength matter, of course-- they dictate how we would use you in a dance. But what's between your legs isn't going to determine what role you get within the company. It doesn't matter at all except to the person fitting you for your costume." 

"So your policies must completely prevent a lot of the gender inequality problems that other employers have to watch out for," said the interviewer. 

"Absolutely not," replied Butterfly. "It doesn't remove our responsibility to mind the gender pay gap problem. Not at all. We analyze our books every year, and if we spot a problem anywhere in the organization, we address it right away. It sounds very mundane, but it's easy to make a mistake and the natural tendency of any large organization is to drift right into it because of the force of the larger culture. Just because you don't intend to be unequal doesn't remove your responsibility if you accidentally are. So the culture is like a wind always blowing us towards inequality and for those of us running Metamorphosis Dance Theatre, it's a matter of constant attention, constant course correction."

===

Natalie looked away from the big screen when the door swung open in the side of the media room. 

"Here's your visitor, Ms. Fernsby," said the gossipy attendant. And Natalie paused the video. 

A tall person entered the room wearing a wine-red suit that nearly matched his hair. The suit was tight fitting and double breasted. It looked to be some sort of silk jacquard and it was embroidered all over with gold snakes. He was wearing a ruffled blouse, and the black ruffles stuck out at his breast and his wrists. He wore a large vintage watch. His pointed shoes were a dark red that was nearly black. And he was wearing sunglasses. 

Crowley crossed the room in front of all the astonished elderly people and folded his long body into a crouch in front of Natalie and took one of her hands in both of his. 

"Is this your son, Ms. Fernsby?", asked the attendant. "He's a handsome fellow."

One of Crowley's eyebrows flickered in amusement. He winked at Natalie. 

"His birth changed my life," said Natalie. "I can't even tell you."

"Forty-one years ago," said Crowley. "Any regrets?"

"None," said Natalie. 

"Well, your mother is already livening things up around here," said the attendant. "I wouldn't have expected someone her age to even know who E. M. Butterfly is."

"Oh, she knows them," said Crowley. "This woman is the most obsessive super-fan of E. M. Butterfly. Followed their career from the very start and hasn't missed a single tour in seventeen years."

"How about you?", said the attendant. "Are you a fan?"

"Couldn't help but be drawn in," said Crowley. "T'was inevitable. We're going to their show tonight." 

An old man sitting in the corner of the room spoke up loudly, in the way that half-deaf people do. He pointed at the television screen. "That Butterfly is a lunatic. They keep a six meter long python as a pet. Be careful at that show. The thing might get loose."

"Yes," said an old woman with thick glasses. "It's a big white snake. Named Starburst or something. Lives in their trailer."

 _Actually_ , thought Natalie, _She's white with gold markings. And the name is Starlight._

"She's seven point two meters," Crowley said, straightening up to his full and intimidating height. Crowley stalked around the room, swaying slowly from side to side as he explained in a hypnotic and sibilant voice. "The snake prowls around backstage keeping all the unauthorized people out. She can smell wrongdoers and she's drawn to them like a magnet." 

Everyone in the room was wide eyed. The old woman with the thick glasses was smiling and nodding as if all her suspicions were being confirmed. 

"Yes," said Natalie. "And Butterfly feeds her from their table. She has a taste for gourmet pastries."

The gossipy attendant cocked her head from side to side. When Crowley smiled at her, she took a big step back and plastered herself against the wall.

"Absolutely," said Crowley, "She has a sweet tooth. I once saw her inhale a dozen eclairs in one sitting."

The attendant sputtered: "But don't they eat mice or something?" She looked around the room of elderly people, as if one of them was going to confirm how reality worked. "Or rabbits." But the elders ignored her. They were all watching Natalie and Crowley with great interest. 

"The eclairs were back when she was still small," said Natalie. "A few eclairs are nothing. I saw her swallow an entire four-tiered wedding cake last winter. It was a sticky date sponge cake. She let me take a slice." 

"She knows the snake very well," said Crowley, nodding at Natalie. "Used to take care of her when she was small. That's why she is welcome back stage at any time. You know what they say about snakes: Very loyal creatures. They never forget the ones who take care of them."

The attendant's mouth was opening and closing. She seemed to be trying to work out whether she had ever had heard that about snakes, but she never did manage to work her way up to making any intelligible sounds before Crowley bent down and offered his arm to Natalie, who took it. She stood up without so much as a creak in her knees and they strode out the door together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who commented. You all were a huge part of why this story got written, and a lot of what you told me in your comments became seeds that steered where the story went. I am so glad to have been able to share this journey with all of you. 
> 
> I have loved writing this happy queer occult family, and I've found it very healing.


End file.
